On the Case of the Altered Ex
by M. Rig
Summary: Brennan goes undercover in a gentleman's club to ID a man from her past while Booth struggles to support his partner without jealousy--or lust--distracting him from the case.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my first case fic! I'm oh-so-excited. (But don't worry; it's still going to be more romance than police procedure.) : ) I'm working on plot in this one, which has never been my strong suit, so I welcome your thoughts about how it's progressing... if I'm boring you or confusing you or everything's okay.**

**For you canonistas, I'm taking Booth and Bones' relationship a little old-skool here... maybe season 2 or 3ish, when it wasn't quite clear how much they loved each other yet. I'm hoping to post daily until this is finished. Oh, and I don't own Bones.**

Brennan and Booth were splayed spread-eagled against the side of his vehicle, as the blue and red lights of the patrolman's squad car washed over them in repeating waves, neon-brilliant against the inky night.

Booth's hands fisted in rage as the patrolman patted him down. "Buddy, you have no idea what you're doing here," he growled, "I'm a federal officer. Check my badge."

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't. But being a Fed isn't a free pass to break the law."

"Sonofa…" Booth swore viciously. He couldn't believe his luck. Of all the cops that could have busted them, he got by-the-book Andy freaking Griffith determined to follow procedure...

"Just be quiet, Booth," Brennan warned.

"Listen to the lady. I'm taking you both in, and we can sort through your stories at the station. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law…" the officer mirandized them, securing their wrists in handcuffs as Booth shot his partner an incredulous look of rage.

"What exactly are you arresting me for?" Booth demanded.

"Solicitation," the officer replied.

"Listen, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute, and she is _not_ a prostitute."

Surveying Brennan from head to toe, the officer shook his head dubiously. "She sure looks like a prostitute."

"Thank you!" Brennan replied triumphantly. "See, Booth? I sure look like a prostitute!"

"Officer, this woman is my partner--" Booth interjected.

"Sir, being a federal officer isn't a free pass to solicit prostitutes," the patrolman repeated doggedly.

"I told you I'm not a prostitute. I'm merely _pretending _to be one," Brennan explained calmly, fully expecting that her explanation would sort the whole misunderstanding out neatly.

"Okay then, I'm _pretending _to be a police officer and I'm taking you in."

"Alright, what's your Captain's name and serial?" Booth demanded, to no effect.

Shifting her weight awkwardly on the sky-high heels strapped to her feet, Brennan locked her cuffed hands behind her back and compressed her shoulder blades grotesquely, bending her arms into impossible angles behind her and then up over her head until she triumphantly maneuvered her arms down and in front of her, the handcuffs now restraining her much more comfortably than they had been when they were behind her. Booth watched her, stunned, temporarily out of words.

"Oh, one of those, huh?" the officer asked, unimpressed with her trick.

"I'm very flexible," she explained.

"Guess that comes in handy, your line of work?" the officer leered.

"Alright, that's _enough,_" Booth hissed. "This is ridiculous. And where'd you learn how to do that, Bones?"

"I could show you how," she answered, ignoring his exact question, "but with your overly developed musculature, it's very improbably that you possess the requisite flexibility to--"

"Do the johns pay extra for those big words, honey?" the cop asked her slyly.

"Dammit!" Booth roared, kicking the vehicle in frustration. Brennan had decided to follow her own advice, and clamped her mouth shut. It was obvious that Booth had no such compunction, and as he wriggled and kicked and cursed, she thought that it was ironic really for him to be on the other side of an arrest. He didn't seem to be finding the academic interest in the situation. _Or _the humor. Because there was something really quite funny about the way the short, dumpy beat cop, hands-on-hips, was fearlessly glaring up at the enraged visage of her partner.

And when the little patrolman carefully head-ducked Booth's imposing form into the squad car, she couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling out—boiling over, really—though she knew she must seem insane to be laughing at such a moment. Even as she was shoved unceremoniously into the backseat beside him, she couldn't contain her amusement at this whole stupid situation, and the glowering hulk of her partner next to her, apparently in _no mood, _just exacerbated the humor.

"The look on your face, when he took your guns…" she choked, tears of hilarity in her eyes.

"Laugh it up, Bones," he mumbled darkly. "I always knew it would come to this."

"Come to what?" she wheezed.

"That _you_ would get us arrested."

"This is _not _my fault—"

"It's always your fault. You know, this is what you do, you don't listen to me, you push and push _until we all go to prison_…"

"If you had let me have a gun, we wouldn't be in this situation!" she objected.

"You're right. _We _wouldn't be arrested. _You_ would be. And I'm okay with that. I think some jail time would do you good."

"How so?"

"Cause you just do whatever you want, Bones. Without regard for the fact that anyone might know better than you. But _nooooo, _you're the genius, you know everything. And when I tell you not to talk to the suspect, what do you do? Have a delightful little conversation! Just having a chat with the murderer, like blaaaaagh, all word vomit everywhere…"

"Word vomit? I'm not familiar with the term."

"Why am I not surprised?" he said in exasperation. "Maybe if you ever _listened_--"

"You two both shut up back there or I'll get out the pepper spray." The patrolman glared at them in the rearview mirror as he guided the squad car through evening traffic. He didn't look like he was kidding.

**AN: Next chapter starts the flashback! I'm writing it now...**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Oookay, so I know I told you I was taking BxB back to Season 2 relationship, but I'm not altering the rest of the current canon. Just their dynamic. So Hacker appears in this story, for example. But B and B might still have that old vibe... clear as mud, right?**

_Earlier that week..._

"All I'm saying, Bones, is that you should follow my lead, okay? I have no idea why Hacker wants to see both of us, so just let me do the talking."

"I'm more than able to speak for myself, Booth," she disagreed. "In fact, Andrew and I spoke on the phone only—"

"Good morning," Assistant Director Hacker said as he briskly entered his office and took a seat behind his desk. "Thanks for coming in, Agent Booth, Temperance."

"Sir," Booth greeted, nodding. He had never been ordered into Hacker's office before and he was not liking it now. Hacker was a pencil-pusher who was mostly content to just let the agents do their thing. And if he needed an update, he talked to Booth. He _never _asked Bones to come in. Was this some sort of excuse to talk to her? Maybe their last date hadn't gone as well as Hacker hoped? Sneaking a glance at his partner, he noted that Bones was—for the moment at least—blessedly silent.

"So I'll get right to it," Hacker began. "We need your help on a case. This request is coming from on-high and since--" he gestured to Brennan, an obsequious grin painted on his face, "--since we've gotten to know each other, I took the liberty of asking you into this meeting as well as Agent Booth. It's not your usual type of assignment. We're going after Javier Quijano..."

"Number four," Booth nodded, referring to the FBI's Most Wanted list.

"That's right. This guy's been evading us for the better part of a decade, and his organized crime groups are getting bolder every year. We're under—I'm under—a fair amount of pressure to bring this guy in."

"I don't understand," Dr. Brennan interjected. "I haven't been informed of any remains sent to the Jeffersonian…"

"There are none, Dr. Brennan. What I'm referring to is an investigation that's already well underway. The agency's been gathering intel on Quijano for years. We feel that we have enough evidence to make a solid case against him but we can't get to him."

"Why not?" Brennan asked intently.

Hacker sighed in frustration. "This is what we know: we know where he used to live. We know about his previous associates, his finances, what he ate for breakfast, what tailor he used. We know _everything_ about him up until six months ago, at which point, he liquidated his assets and went underground."

"Wait," Booth said. "If we had so much intel on this guy why didn't we bring him in six months ago?" Booth was only passingly familiar with the Bureau's work on Quijano. The details of the case were on a need-to-know basis, and until now, he apparently hadn't needed to know.

Hacker shrugged, turning his chair to look out the window. "Honestly? We messed up. We were taking our time, gathering information on his operations, expanding our intel. The plan was to bring him, and all his employees, down together. But somehow… I don't know. Either he was tipped off or he just has the luckiest timing I've ever seen. He dropped off our radar completely."

Hacker slid a fat manila file across the desk. "This is all we've got. No new pictures. No new name."

Booth immediately began flipping through the file. Brennan glanced at the case notes over his shoulder.

"I'm not following…" she murmured. "What does this have to do with us?"

"Well, Temperance, not 'us' so much as _you._"

"Excuse me?" both partners asked, sitting up a bit straighter in surprise.

"Quijano's gone by a lot of different aliases, and lived in a lot of different places. One of those places was Guatemala. Zacapa to be exact."

Brennan gasped, drawing a concerned glance from Booth.

"So what does this have to do with Bones?" he asked Hacker.

"During his time in Guatemala, Temperance, you knew him by the alias Dr. Miguel Cristoba." Hacker pushed a sepia tone glossy picture across the desk. The photo was instantly familiar, and showed a group of grad students and volunteers gathered over a dig site. Brennan stood in the foreground, smiling as she looked up into the face of...

Brennan paled at Hacker's insinuation. "Wait... you're saying that Dr. Cristoba is really... Javier Quijano. A criminal. A murderer. _Not _a trained paleobotanist?" She added the last as almost the greatest of his transgressions.

"That's right."

The light seemed to dim in the room as Brennan slouched in her chair, her mind reeling. Dr. Cristoba had been a handsome, charming... oh God. _She had kissed a murderer. She had let a murderer undress her and then she'd..._

"Bones? Bones!" Booth was snapping his fingers near her face, scowling at the all-too-personal-seeming dismay flitting across his partner's beautiful features.

Wanting to give her some time to compose herself, Hacker continued. "Yesterday we got a tip, our only lead since his trail went cold. That he's here in DC, possibly with ties to the Nicaraguan embassy, and that he frequents a…" Hacker glanced warily at Dr. Brennan. "…a gentleman's club in the U Street District."

Booth's eyes narrowed imperceptibly as he looked up at the Assistant Director. He didn't like where this was going.

"We've sent undercover agents in to assess the situation, but we haven't been able to make a visual identification from these pictures. Our best explanation is that Quijano may have undergone some facial reconstruction when he dropped off the grid a few months ago at a clinic in Rivas. This is why you might be able to help us; you knew him, knew the sound of his voice, the way he moved, his mannerisms. You might be able to recognize him, especially with your ability to perceive the bone structure underlying his plastic surgery, when our agents can't."

He paused to let the idea sink in. "The management at the gentleman's club has offered their cooperation in exchange for us looking the other way regarding their…business practices." Hacker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We can't just arrest every guy who walks through their door looking for…well, we have to be sure or we'll tip our hand. This guy's good, and very well-funded. If he knows we're close he'll just go back underground, and we can't risk losing his trail again."

As Brennan continued staring moonily at the photo, apparently lost a million miles away in thought, Booth's posture tensed considerably. He was getting seriously impatient, but willed himself to remain calm as Hacker finished putting his cards on the table. Booth slid forward to the edge of his chair, his forearms leaned challengingly on Hacker's desk.

"How exactly," he asked quietly, "do you plan to get Dr. Brennan close enough to this guy to observe him so closely?"

Hacker paused, and directed his answer to Agent Booth. "I'm asking Temperance to go undercover for us, as a…"

"As a what?" Brennan asked.

"No." Booth threw himself up, out of his chair. "Not a chance."

"Agent Booth…" Hacker started.

"No." Booth growled, staring at Hacker with lethal challenge in his eyes. "This is too dangerous, and—undercover work? Are you serious? She's not a trained agent. She's a _scientist._ There is no way that I'm allowing--"

"I'm still not certain what we're discussing here," Brennan interrupted. Her glance ricocheted between the two men, noting the frustration in Hacker's hunched posture and the barely restrained violence of Booth's.

"Your good friend Andrew here wants to whore you out," Booth hissed.

Attaining the meaning behind her partner's crudeness, Brennan blushed. "I have no moral opposition to prostitution, Booth," she explained quickly. "It's certainly an unfortunate choice to say the least, and statistically the most dangerous job in the world, but I understand the socioeconomic factors that drive some women to…"

"Bones, enough," Booth interrupted, his arms crossed defiantly. This was why he wanted her to just keep quiet. "There's got to be someone else, sir. You know the types of risks associated with undercover ops, what can go wrong. You need an experienced agent for this assignment, someone who understands these type of people." Casting an inscrutable glance down at his partner, he restated. "Someone who understands _any_ type of people."

Brennan opened her mouth to object to Booth's thinly veiled insult but their conversation barreled on as if she wasn't even in the room.

"Agent Booth," Hacker replied evenly, "if I had any other option, I wouldn't ask this. It will be carried out in the safest way possible, extremely low risk. This is identification only. I'm not asking Dr. Brennan to do _anything_ but remain in the background and observe the clientele. Full audio and video surveillance. We'll be watching her the whole time."

"Watching?" Booth clarified. "Why wouldn't she have backup onsite?"

"Again, this is our best chance to nab Quijano," Hacker explained. "I'm not willing to risk the operation by filling this club with agents. He's very smart, and he'll spook easily. And no offense, Agent Booth, but you look like... well, an agent. She'll be perfectly safe. Temperance, you have my word."

Though Hacker had addressed Brennan, he never looked away from Booth; the two men's gazes were locked on each other, neither sparing her so much as a glance. It irritated Brennan tremendously that they were discussing her as if she wasn't there, and that Booth was doing his caveman thing and acting as if she was some sort of child unable to make her own decisions. "I'll do it," she announced. "I appreciate a challenge."

Hacker's face sagged with relief. "You have my, and the Bureau's, gratitude. I'll notify Dr. Saroyan."

"One question—" Brennan interjected. "Given the potentially dangerous nature of this assignment, can I have a gun?"

"_No_," both men barked in unison, well aware of her itchy trigger finger. Brennan crossed her arms across her chest stubbornly, scowling. Apparently Hacker's professed gratitude didn't last very long.

"Is this how you use all your girlfriends, Hacker?" Booth hissed, knowing that he was being grossly inappropriate but way beyond caring.

"That's enough, Agent Booth." Hacker growled, cutting off Brennan's angry tirade before she could even start. He didn't want to hear the dismissal in her voice when she tried to explain that she wasn't his _girlfriend_, and he certainly didn't want Booth to hear it.

Booth slowly lowered himself to his chair, never moving his eyes from the man hiding behind the desk. "Bones," he said in a lethally quiet voice, "why don't you wait for me outside? I just need a word with Assistant Director Hacker."

Weighing the situation, Brennan hesitated. What exactly was the more partnerly thing to do here? She wanted to prevent whatever insubordinate thing Booth was about to say to Andrew, and resented being ordered out of the room so casually, after it had been made very clear that it was _her_ help the Bureau needed, not her partner's. But one look at Booth ensured her silence. She had rarely seen him like this, without a trace of his usual jocularity. The level, cold stare he was aiming at Hacker barely looked like the partner she knew. This was the stare she imagined he'd worn as a sniper, the calm but ruthless efficiency of eliminating a target in his site. She had to steel herself to repress a shiver of discomfort.

Gathering the photo and files, Dr. Brennan moved quietly from the room, shutting the door behind her.

His partner safely out of earshot, Booth lifted Hacker's nameplate from his desk, studying the Bureau logo closely. When he returned his gaze to the other man's face, there was a feral gleam of warning in his eyes.

"I just need to be clear, Assistant Director," he spoke in a menacingly lowered voice. "If anything happens to my partner on this assignment, if she's hurt in any way…" Booth placed the nameplate carefully back on the desk. "This… title… won't matter. You and me? We'll just be two guys," he shrugged ominously. "The guy who put my partner in harm's way and the guy who can't let that go unpunished."

Hacker returned his glare in spades. "Enough with the macho posturing, Agent Booth. If you ever question my motives in front of Temperance again, I'll have your badge and gun and your unemployed ass will be out in the street. You're not the only one who cares for her."

"From what I can tell, _sir, _apparently I am," Booth replied quietly, completely unfazed by his boss's little show of histrionics. If Hacker thought, for even a second, that he would protect his job before protecting Bones, he didn't know his agent very well at all.

**AN: Wooh! Let me know if anything doesn't make sense, ok? : )**


	3. Chapter 3

They spent the afternoon reviewing the case files at her place. In the uneasy silence, she could practically _hear_ Booth compartmentalizing. He was tight-lipped and serious, completely professional. He didn't complain or try to wheedle her into changing her mind. He didn't ask about her history with Cristoba—no, Quijano. When she'd offered him a beer to help soften the rough edges, he'd waved her away dismissively.

The case files were spread before him on the floor. He was intent, focused, studying the rough sketch of Quijano's life provided by the data. They had been at it for hours, pouring through reports. Brennan was still reeling from the idea that the man she'd known, had been fairly intimate with, was not who he claimed to be. Memories of him filtered through her consciousness—his beautiful dark hair, his perpetually teasing eyes. She hadn't known him well, but over the course of the six weeks they'd spent at the dig site, they'd shared enough time together that she _should have _found a crack in his alias. Something should have seemed off. But maybe she'd been too foolishly misled by her own biological urges to suspect anything. Including why a paleobotanist would waste his time on a relatively recent mass grave, with no expectation of any fossil evidence at all. But his lips had always been carved in a seductive smile that instantly disarmed her, not completely unlike another man she knew...

Aware that her tangent was only distracting her from the work in front of them, Brennan forced herself to focus. Booth was still completely absorbed in the case file. She knew his shrewd mind was forming a picture of the man, probing his story for clues as to his character, assessing weaknesses and formulating strategies. When he was consumed in a case like this, his habitually hidden intellect was suddenly apparent, and very intimidating. She knew his efforts were for her—to keep her safe, as usual. It hit her in the heart—the control it required for him to prepare her for an assignment he so obviously dreaded.

The Bureau's tactical team would be arriving shortly. Apparently Hacker was sending an agent over who had spent years working vice with the LAPD before joining the Bureau, and had been involved in numerous undercover investigations. She was supposed to prep Brennan on how to insinuate herself at the club. How to act like a whore, Brennan reminded herself sadly, recalling Booth's earlier comment. There was a subtext to his anger, she thought, something she couldn't fully understand. He had been more incensed than the situation merited, in her opinion. Defensive and resistant to what was, though surely a step or two outside their usual work, just another case.

She was glad she had thought to call Angela. The evening's preparation was likely to be draining, and with Booth being so…not himself… she would more than welcome Angela's sunniness. At the sound of knocking, she glanced at Booth. He was on his phone, pacing, and it sounded like he was speaking to the management of the club she would be placed at. The Moonlight, she reminded herself dryly. Not a very creative name.

Opening the door, she was bewildered by the sight of a wheeled metal rack right in front of her face, splashed with dozens of items of clothing. Peering out from behind the wardrobe rack was a woman of medium build, blonde, middle-aged, attractive in a used-to-be-stunning way.

"Dr. Brennan?" she asked.

"Yes…"

"Trish Kazansky, from the Bureau. Assistant Director Hacker sent us over?"

"Of course," Brennan murmured, holding the door open.

"So nice to meet you! Love your books, by the way. This is Mark," she gestured over her shoulder to a thin young man piled high with cardboard boxes.

"Here, let me help you with that," Brennan said, taking the top two boxes out of Mark's hands.

"Thanks," he said, out of breath. "I actually have to make another trip to get your luggage. I'll be right back…"

"My luggage?" Brennan asked. Trish had already disappeared into the living room, where Brennan found her embracing Booth warmly.

"—no, it's been at least a couple years! I don't get over to your side of the building much, what with spending all my time luring senators into seedy motels and whatnot," she laughed, her voice textured as if from years of smoking.

"Why would you do that?" Brennan had to ask.

Booth inclined his head to her, his smile making a re-appearance. "You don't want to know how Trish here spends her workdays."

The older woman laughed brightly, turning to Brennan. "I'm the best fake whore in DC, and in this town, that's saying something, right?"

Brennan frowned as she deciphered Trish's statement. "I suppose you're referring to your undercover work soliciting."

Trish's smile faded a degree or two and she glanced at Booth curiously. "Yes, that's what I meant," she explained slowly.

"Don't worry about her," Booth told Trish. "She's…extremely… literal."

Trish's smile returned as she threw up her hands. "Hey, whatever works. Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Brennan. I'm excited to have the chance to work with you."

Brennan recognized Trish's compliment as an attempt to become friends, and thought back to Angela's advice: when you get a compliment, give one back—just make sure it's sincere. "And you…" Brennan paused, "have very symmetrical zygomatic bones. I'm looking forward to working with you too."

Booth's eyes crinkled slightly at her remarks, and she thought she saw the glimmer of a grin playing on the edges of his mouth before he turned Trish to the case files.

Brennan was distracted by her friend's voice as Angela called out from the entryway, "Look what I found in your hallway!" She nudged Mark, who was once again weighed down—this time with four suitcases. "He seems helpful—I think we should keep him."

The young man stole a wide-eyed glance at Angela before escaping to the safety of the living room.

As Booth and Trish compared notes on the case file, Mark set to unpacking his stack of boxes. Between the rack of clothing and the exponentially expanding pile of packing material blooming from the numerous boxes, the living room was starting to feel chaotic. Brennan observed the scene anxiously, unsure of how to help. Ever-observant, Angela steered her into the kitchen, selecting a bottle of wine and retrieving two glasses.

"I can't drink, Ange, we're working. And I'm due at the club in a few hours."

"Then you can just watch _me_ drink." Angela's dark eyes searched her friend's face sympathetically. "Are you really up for this?"

"Of course," Brennan replied grumpily. "It sounds pretty straight-forward, and I don't know why everyone's acting like I can't take care of myself. You know I can."

"I know! I do. We're just all… concerned. The normal, correct amount of concern that friends have for other friends."

"I've been in dangerous situations before, Angela. This is hardly my first day on the job."

"True, but you've always had Booth behind you. This is going to be just you."

Brennan swirled her wine around the bowl of her glass, idly watching the legs course downwards into the red liquid. She couldn't tell Angela what she was thinking—that whether Booth was with her or not, she knew he was _with _her. That he wouldn't let her get hurt. In all their years together, she marveled that he'd never let her down. Not once. And even when she'd had to fight, when she was on her own, the knowledge that he was working to find her was enough to sharpen her abilities, to make her stronger. But she couldn't tell Angela any of this without sounding like a starry-eyed member of the Seeley Booth fan club. So she demurred.

"I have faith in my abilities, Ange."

Seemingly satisfied, and knowing Brennan's stubbornness, Angela decided to let the matter drop. Slipping beside Brennan, she gave her friend's tense shoulders a friendly squeeze.

**AN: One of the things I'm trying to figure out with this piece plot-wise is how to move the story while still being entertaining. I trust you all to have longer attention spans than I do, but I sorta suspect that this chapter didn't have enough ooomph. Please let me know if you have thoughts on the pacing. : ) Thanks!!!**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: A fairly long chapter here... thanks for all the constructive feedback. You guys are the best! And don't worry, the romance is coming soon! : )**

Trish efficiently ushered Brennan into her bedroom, carrying a few outfits and supplies. "Magic time!" she announced cheerfully. The last glimpse Brennan saw before Trish shut the door was Booth's unreadable face looking back at her. She was having a hard time focusing on the case suddenly. All she wanted to do was figure out what he was thinking, why he wasn't asking her any questions, whether his reluctance meant that he was merely concerned for her safety or if he believed she truly couldn't handle the assignment. If they could just be alone for a few minutes…

But now she sat in front of her dresser, chewing the corner of her lip nervously as Trish detailed the specifics of the club. "I'll be taking you in to meet Mariam—she's the owner—and help you get set up. Mark will be taking care of the tech, both for you and Agent Booth. You'll like Mariam—she's got an edge. Being a madam probably isn't an easy job…" Trish mused thoughtfully while holding a silver dress in front of Brennan.

Trish nodded, as if in answer to her own unspoken question. "Definitely this one. Trust me."

Surveying the dress Trish had selected, Brennan was relieved she'd shaved her legs that morning. From the size of the fabric being dangled in front of her, she'd be showing a lot of skin.

As Brennan changed into the dress, Trish rambled on conversationally about her experiences as an undercover prostitute, averting her eyes. "Of course," she said sadly, "I'm getting a little past my prime to be doing this kind of work. And my husband's been bugging me to retire. Time to pass the torch onto one of you young, pretty things," she grinned. "But I've nabbed a lot of dirty perverts in my day, more than enough to laugh over in my old age."

"I won't be doing anything… like that," Brennan explained. "I'm just going to stay in the background and observe."

"Let's hope," Trish said ruefully. "Quijano's a dangerous guy. And even more reason to stay in the background is that he may remember you."

"He may," Brennan mumbled noncommittally.

Stepping in front of her full-length mirror, Brennan surveyed her reflection critically. The dress was indecently short, ending mere inches beneath her backside. It was vaguely 1920's style, loose and baggy, sleeveless but cut conservatively high at the neck, just under her clavicles, as if to compensate for the shocking lower half. The shape of the dress billowed and swirled around her curves like mercury as she moved. The effect was waif-like when she stood still, all lean arms and legs, but it caressed her curves lovingly when she moved.

She threw a grin at Trish. "I like it."

Laughing, the agent handed her a pair of strappy silver heels. "I'll compliment you later. Right now I'm going to go throw up with envy, you look so good."

00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oob((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00 00))oo((00

In the living room, Angela pawed through the wardrobe rack eagerly. Pulling a lingerie set from the bar, she wiggled her eyebrows playfully at Booth. "What do you think, hot stuff?" she asked.

"For you or me?" he teased. "Because peach isn't really my color."

"But I do think it _would _look pretty hot on Bren," Angela mused.

Booth sank his hands in his pockets viciously, a scowl suddenly darkening his jaw. "You know what I think? I think this is all a horrible idea," he said. "And I _really _don't see any reason why it should require fancy… underwear."

"Fancy panties!" Angela giggled. "I think that should be Bren's new nickname. _Doctor _fancy panties!" Simmering down under Booth's withering glance, she shot him a placating smile. "She's going to be fine, Booth."

Mark pushed a pair of scissors into Angela's hand. "Feel free to help. All the tags have to be removed, and then we pack all of it up into Dr. Brennan's suitcases."

"How long exactly is Dr. Brennan packing for?" Booth asked.

"We've got wardrobe for two weeks, but who knows?" Mark answered.

"Hey, nice stuff!" Angela exclaimed, examining the designer tags. "Does Bren get to keep all this?"

Mark dug through some of his boxes, briskly tearing through bubble wrap and ignoring Angela. "Agent Booth, I can get you started going over the AV. It's pretty top of the line actually. I'm looking forward to seeing this tech in action. We've got the coolest livecam—you're not going to believe it." Mark held a dark blue, glassy pendant in his hand. "Check it out. Looks like a normal necklace right? Camera's inside it. Crystal clear picture. Very _Alias_, right?"

Booth examined the jewelry carefully. "Huh."

"Wide angle, _and_ color, hi def, multi-spectrum, thermal," Mark enthused. "We'll be watching from…well, anywhere really. Do you want me to set up your end in your office?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Booth answered, distracted.

"We'll be able to see everything that Dr. Brennan is looking at." Mark opened a tiny case, producing a flesh-colored tag the size of a pinhead. "Wireless two-way transmitter. This will go right inside Dr. Brennan's ear. We'll be able to hear everything she hears, and she'll be able to hear us."

Even Booth had to admit that the device's miniature size was impressive. Much more discreet than the earbud they used during interrogations. Reflecting on the brick-like walkies that he'd carried back in his Ranger days, he could only marvel at how fast the technology had improved. "What does something like this go for?" he asked Mark.

"A lot. A _lot, _a lot. Let's just say that Hacker's throwing some major budget behind this one. And between you and me, he was pretty clear about keeping Dr. Brennan as safe as possible."

_Better fucking have been,_ Booth thought.

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Brennan watched in the mirror, fascinated, as Trish braided her thick, auburn hair and pinned the braid firmly up against the back of her scalp. The appearance of the braid pleased Brennan's sense of symmetry. Marching up the back of her head like an extension of her vertebrae, it seemed pleasantly skeletal to her eye. Just as Brennan was admiring her work, Trish produced a plastic cap and stretched it firmly over Brennan's head, obscuring the intricate braid. "Ow," she couldn't help mumbling, but Trish only chuckled at her.

"You've got a lot of hair here, and unless you want me to cut it all off, we need to smoosh it down before putting your wig on," Trish explained practically. With a flourish, the agent produced a glossy, black wig and positioned it on Brennan's head. The style was a sophisticated, edgy bob, with a heavy fringe of bangs that swept the top of her eyebrows. It ended just beneath her earlobes and reflected the light as if it was lacquered. The effect was startlingly exotic, the dark color emphasizing the icy pastel of Brennan's eyes.

Brennan reached up to touch the silky strands of hair curiously. "Why is it necessary for me to wear a wig?" she asked.

"Two reasons," Trish explained through a mouthful of hairpins. "One, you're a well-known author and a past associate of Quijano's. We can't have this guy recognizing you, either from a book jacket or from memory. Two, putting on a costume will help you remember that you're playing a character here. You need to blend in and look like you belong."

Nodding, Brennan studied her reflection critically. Having not yet seen the women who worked at The Moonlight, she couldn't surmise whether she would blend in or not. But she had to admit to herself that she was hesitantly enjoying the process. She had never played dress-up as a little girl, but she could understand the appeal of temporarily disappearing into a different persona. Escapist, she realized. There is freedom in disguise.

"Traditionally," Brennan mused, "prostitutes in many different cultures wear costumes. Perhaps none so elaborately as the geisha of feudal Japan, for whom the ritual of applying makeup was a formal, almost sacred, process. In fact, the application of a geisha's makeup could take several hours to complete, and often required multiple assistants."

"Lucky for you, your makeup won't be quite that difficult," Trish said. "We're going for smoky, seductive, but not cheap. The girls at The Moonlight are high-priced, so we're going to keep it classy. Good rule of thumb for this: either do your eyes, or your mouth. Not both."

Brennan nodded. She could appreciate Trish's concrete rules. The older woman's instructions were precise and clear.

"I'm going to show you everything I'm doing so that you can reproduce it yourself," Trish continued. "Unfortunately, I can't be in there with you. But _this_ can." Smiling, Trish hefted a sturdy looking metal case onto Brennan's dresser. Flipping the latch, she opened the lid and fanned its tiered trays to reveal a boggling rainbow array of pigments, brushes, powders, and fascinating little containers.

Brennan couldn't help but lean forward to study its contents. The outside of the kit looked similar to one of Booth's handgun cases. Anthropologically speaking, the comparison was not lost on her. "Do I get to keep this?" she asked slyly.

"I won't tell if you don't," Trish agreed playfully. "I see that you keep your everyday makeup pretty light, so this is probably going to feel like too much, but just try to apply it exactly as I show you. I recommend we tone down your lips with foundation and just a bit of clear gloss, but go crazy on your eyes. What do you think?"

Frowning slightly, Brennan paused. "I don't know what you mean by going crazy on my eyes. It doesn't sound good."

"Ever try fake eyelashes?" Trish asked dramatically, pulling a tiny tray of delicate bristles from the case.

"No. How are they applied?"

"Glue!" Trish stated triumphantly, brandishing one of the mysterious tubes.

"That can't be right. I seriously doubt the advisability of placing an adhesive so close to the tear ducts," Brennan protested.

Trish rolled her eyes cheerfully. "What have I been saying all night? _Trust me_!"

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They were distracted by a knock on the door. Glancing at Angela, joyously cross-legged on the floor underneath a pile of fabric, Booth mumbled an excuse me to Mark and went to answer it. "What the…"

Hodgins burst through the door carrying two six-packs of beer, closely followed by Fisher hefting a bucket of fried chicken. "Did we miss anything?" Hodgins asked.

"This isn't the Super Bowl," Booth growled, following the squints into the living room.

"Oh man," Hodgins said, surveying the impressive amount of gear piled into Brennan's previously tidy living space. "It looks like a costume party exploded in here."

This was getting quickly out of hand, Booth thought. People seemed to be forgetting that his partner was heading into an unknown situation, one for which she was completely untrained, that could get very dangerous very fast. He didn't like it at all. None of Mark's impressive technology could change the fact that Bones would be in there alone, and if anything unexpected went down… he cracked his knuckles angrily. He felt a disturbing lack of control over the situation. And the squints were acting entirely too flippant about the whole thing, he decided. Sitting around laughing like it was a social gathering. Pushing his anxiety down, Booth forced himself to return to the present.

"Okay, okay," Hodgins was saying, "I've got one. This hooker goes to get her taxes done and under occupation, she writes 'prostitute'. The tax guy tells her that's not a legal occupation so she thinks for a minute, scratches it out, and then writes 'chicken farmer' instead. So the tax guy is like 'how do you figure?' and she just shrugs and says 'I raised a thousand cocks last year'. Get it? Come on…"

Everyone groaned. "Wait, I've got another one," Hodgins continued, cracking a beer.

"You keep talking, and I _will_ shoot you," Booth growled.

"Geez, just trying to lighten the mood," Hodgins replied.

"Seriously. I will pull my gun and I will shoot you."

"Okay guys," Angela broke in, "let's cool it down. This is going to be hard on Bren and we're all here to be supportive." Looking from Booth's subtly twitching jaw to Hodgins awkward face, she sighed. Even though Bren had asked her to come over, she wondered if she should gather up Hodgins and Fisher and escape before Booth carried through on his threat of violence.

Fisher cleared his throat in the tense silence and asked, "Anybody want some chicken?"

Struggling to remain calm, Booth swiped his hand over his eyes in frustration. _God grant me the serenity to accept the assholes I cannot change, the courage to shoot the ones I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. _


	5. Chapter 5

"Alright Dr. Brennan, let's talk body language," Trish continued. "Right now, your body language says… I don't know… '_no talking in the library_.' But I need it to say '_I can be whatever you want, baby_.' Make sense?"

"Not remotely," Brennan answered.

Trish sighed. "Let's start with your posture." She regarded Dr. Brennan's body critically. "You hold yourself way too stiff. You need to slouch a little."

"Actually," Brennan corrected, "slouching puts pressure on the anterior vertebrae, leading to disc compression."

"Well I need you to slouch like a woman who doesn't know that, then. I'm not going to lie—you'll need to do some acting here. Do you think you can handle this?"

"I have no acting experience. But, though I'm a forensic anthropologist, I've dabbled cultural anthropology. I'm well accustomed to observing cultural mores… perhaps if you have some documentation that I could study…"

Trish shrugged cheerfully. "I'm it, honey. But you can do this. We're going to practice. Assistant Director Hacker made it quite clear that I need to do this right, to make sure you're prepared. And I'm not letting you go in there until I think you're ready, so I need you to focus."

Brennan pinned the woman under the weight of a derisive stare. "I am more than able to focus on a task."

"Okay, okay," Trish placated. "I know you're getting exhausted. This isn't easy. But just think of it as research for your next book."

Brennan brightened instantly. "That's not a bad idea. As a writer, you never know what random information could come in handy to enrich your story."

"I'll expect a dedication, you know," she teased.

Brennan only smiled. She was actually enjoying Trish's company.

"So, to continue… your eyes, they're way too… open. Too sharp. You can't look like you're studying him, or like you're even really paying much attention. Keep your eyes soft."

"Soft," Brennan repeated.

"Try to look just a little bit sleepy." Trish searched for a way to explain it more literally. "Just lower your eyelids a tiny bit. There! Perfect. Remember that your character here is just pulling another night on the job. Look bored, but confident in your sexuality."

"I _am_ confident in my sexuality."

Trish laughed, surprised by Dr. Brennan's frankness. "You're just a barrel of surprises, aren't you? Well good. We can _definitely_ use that." Trish moved in front of her charge, surveying her work. The hair, makeup, wardrobe was all excellent. If anything, she'd done too good a job. Dr. Brennan looked possibly too sophisticated, even for the clientele at The Moonlight.

"Now for movement. Hopefully you'll be able to just sit still in the background, but if you have to interact with the clients in any way, you're going to have to move like a prostitute. The way you walk now is… energetic, take-charge. I need you to be much slinkier, slower, like you're not going anywhere in particular. Instead, walk just like… like you're doing the air a favor just moving through it."

"Very creative," Brennan murmured. "Are you a writer?"

Trish laughed again, feeling satisfied with her efforts, and enjoying the scientist's company more than she had expected. "Now give me just one oozy, sexy walk across the room. Remember your face, your posture, your movement, tie it all together."

Brennan took a few hesitant steps, feeling more than a little foolish. The heels were perilously tall, and she wasn't accustomed to being studied by anyone.

Trish tapped her finger on her chin thoughtfully. "Just think about a man—or a woman, I don't judge—"

"I haven't closed my mind to the possibility of a same-sex relationship," Brennan informed her casually, "but generally I'm attracted to men."

"Oooooookay, then think about a man you want to seduce… maybe someone who thinks you're just a plain jane scientist."

"Hey!" Brennan pouted.

"I'm not saying you _are,_ I'm just saying you should imagine a man you want to really… shock. Impress. Make him drool."

Brennan suppressed the urge to groan out loud. Trish must have psychic abilities. That man she referred to happened to be brooding just outside her door right now. With a mental nod to practicality, she allowed her mind to focus on her partner in a way she had long ago taught herself to ignore. She pictured the smirk dropping from his handsome face at the sight of her walking straight out of some slinky film noir. She could make him forget every other woman he'd ever had, even if just for one delicious moment. The thought ignited her competitive streak and curled her mouth in a sneaky little smile. It occurred to her that she might not be playing much of a character after all.

"Wow, oh my… wow. That's perfect," Trish stammered, amazed at Dr. Brennan's split-second sexpot transformation. Fanning herself, she grinned. "He must be quite a guy."

Brennan gave her a Mona Lisa smile and said nothing.

"I think you're ready," Trish enthused. "I'll go tell them to hold onto their hats."

Brennan was too enthralled with her imagination to even remind Trish that to the best of her knowledge no one was, in fact, wearing a hat.

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Walking into the living room felt like stepping onto a stage, under the blinding spotlight of their collected stares. But for all the gazes turned on her, Brennan focused only on Booth's. It wasn't just that she needed her partner's confidence to bolster her own—there was part of her (the part that miraculously found the ability to slink in heels as if she'd been born to them) that craved a response more… primal from him.

She had never been a seductive woman—had never felt the need. In her experience, men simply didn't require it. A frank invitation was all she had ever needed to catch a potential partner's interest. And yet, she was enjoying the challenge.

She followed Trish's instructions to the letter, just as she had always been able to soak up knowledge and perform on exams. Her competitive streak demanded that she perform this role not adequately, not exceptionally, but better than anyone ever had before. This was way more than Roxy—way more than Vegas. This creature she had created was a _professional._

The silver slide of her dress undulated over her lean frame as she walked slowly towards them, her gaze hooded and cool. Their shocked comments pooled around the wings of her stage: Angela's breathy "Wow…", Hodgin's completely shellshocked "Oh my God…", Fisher's clumsy grip on his beer failing him, Trish's hands clapped rapturously to her face as she surveyed the most startling transformation she'd possibly ever seen.

Only Booth remained silent, his jaw iron-tense and his face inscrutable. She dropped elegantly into a chair, her long limbs askew with arrogant brashness, and casually reached for a beer, cracking the tab top like a firecracker in the quiet room. As she took a casual sip, she surveyed them all with lazy sensuality, and knew she had done well—_very_ well—when she caught a slight tremor in Booth's knees.

"So," Brennan grinned as she asked in a throaty alto, "what do you think?"

Booth's body was very nearly about to fold underneath him—the sight of her striking him harder than any punch to the gut ever could. He had to remind himself that this was _Bones,_ his partner, his awkward, brainy partner, playing a role that a case demanded of her. Because it didn't feel pretend… it felt like the show was for him alone, and she performed the role as prodigiously as she did everything else. His mouth literally watered. He had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for his wallet and throwing it to the floor, sinking to his knees, and begging her to play her role just a little bit further, because he was willing—for the first time in his life—to actually pay for a woman's body. She was _that_ good. Her long, toned limbs and the hourglass figure that played hide and seek with that liquid mercury dress… and that hair, different enough to make him see her in a whole new light. It made him realize how hard he'd pursue this woman if she weren't his partner, if there weren't a line. How he wouldn't stop until he had those long legs wrapped around his waist and those cat eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

The others were fawning all over themselves in a rush to adore her, offering their stunned approval. It was all he could do to stand silent, a great hulking beast of mute tension. He felt like hitting someone, like burying his head into her lap, like fleeing from the room, like throwing her over his shoulder and dragging her away to do his bidding, like laughing hysterically, all at the same time. But he was far too aware of the others in the room, and how they might—specifically Angela—analyze his reaction to her. So he forced himself to keep his face blank and his fists protectively in his pockets. And still, simmering under all his other emotions, was the fear that she was once again dabbling in something far too dangerous. If he could barely manage to keep himself from attacking her, how could he possibly keep her safe from anyone else?

"…and I can't get over that _hair,"_ Angela was saying, "it's so… Cabaret. You don't even look like you!"

"Yeah, you look like… damn," Hodgins failed to find the words.

Trish beamed. "And to think that I worried when I first met you. You could _write the book _on seduction. Nice, nice work, Dr. Brennan. You did everything I asked."

Fisher still hadn't managed to retrieve his toppled beer from the table where it had fallen, and just continued to gape at her, his long face comically slack-jawed. The sight of him made her laugh.

"It's still me, guys. But I'm glad you approve of my acting skill," Brennan said. "I feel ready to do this now."

She studiously avoided making eye contact with her partner. She wanted so badly to gauge his reaction, but was afraid of what she might understand if she looked too closely. But even as she avoided him, he crossed the room silently, and stood directly in front of her, offering a hand to help her up. Pausing only a second, she accepted it and rose to meet him at eye-level. He was close enough to share her oxygen, close enough to study the sunburst pattern of blue in her irises. Brennan felt the room hold its collective breath. She forced herself to drag her eyes up to his, but couldn't read the thoughts behind his intensity. Wordlessly, he cupped his hand to the side of her face and gently pushed the soft brush of hair behind her ear. The contact of his warm, slightly rough fingertips on her sensitive skin lit a shower of sparks inside her. She felt his fingers gently pinching the shell of her ear as he affixed the tiny transmitter in place before stepping back. The loss of his proximity overwhelmed her with something bordering on regret.

Hodgins awkwardly broke the silence, shooting a glance at Booth. "If only we could just get you a fur cape, man, you could go undercover as her pimp. Maybe a cane and a bejeweled goblet…"

Their laughter rolled past him unnoticed. He crossed his arms grimly across his chest, absorbing the reality before him. What had already seemed like a risky assignment had just gotten exponentially more hazardous. From the tips of her glossy hair to the insane lengths of her legs, his partner was a problem waiting to happen.


	6. Chapter 6

Dusk was just lowering itself onto the city as Trish pulled to a stop in front of The Moonlight. Mark was fiddling with his electronics in the backseat, briefing Brennan on the technology that would keep her connected to her partner. The partner she'd barely had a chance to glance at before being whisked away to her assignment. The partner whose unreadable dark gaze had sent a shiver up her barely-dressed back.

She pushed Booth's face from her mind and pictured Quijano instead--or at least what he _used _to look like--and tugged the hem of her dress absently downwards. By now, Booth would be in his office, no doubt joined by his staff or even Andrew, as they waited to monitor her progress. _No stage fright,_ she lectured herself. And anyway, it was too late to turn back now. Feeling the weight of the false eyelashes on her lids, she reminded herself that it was just another case, no matter how oddly dressed she was.

"The club won't open for another hour," Trish said, "so we'll have plenty of time to introduce you and get you set up before we leave." Studying Brennan closely, Trish continued, "You can do this."

Steadying herself with a deep breath, Brennan only nodded.

The club was surprisingly normal looking. Though the exterior was unobtrusive, marked only with a discreet nameplate by the door, the interior resembled any thousand of other nightclubs. The lighting was dim, casting shadows between the lounge furniture and around the raised dance floor and DJ booth. Only the bar was lit, throwing the bartenders who were busily prepping for the evening into harsh contrast. There was a lingering smell of tobacco and alcohol in the air, and something more cloyingly sweet, like the memory of too much perfume. Multiple doors led away from the main room of the club, leading to what Brennan knew were the private suites where the employees worked their shifts.

Trish had excused herself to speak with the manager, and Mark was setting up a laptop in the suite she would be staying in. Though the club officially closed at 2am, the management routinely allowed patrons to enter from the back of the building well into the morning hours. Due to the round-the-clock access of the clientele, it was decided that Brennan would be sleeping at the club, and only returning to the Bureau each day for a team status report. The videoconferencing link that Mark was setting up in her suite would allow her to communicate as needed, a thought that gave her some comfort.

Surveying the space, Brennan automatically noted the exits, and scanned the room for an optimal perch from which to observe the patrons. She picked a raised banquette near one side of the bar. Her back would be into the corner, and the spot afforded her clear sight lines across the club. The only problem was the pendant lamp suspended over the cocktail table, which would bathe her in a spotlight much brighter than the surrounding area. Gingerly, she tapped her fingers to the bulb, finding it just cool enough to unscrew and remove. And with that simple modification, she felt satisfied with her vantage point.

"Bones."

Whirling around, she expected to see Booth, but no one was there. Mystified, she rubbed her temples in distraction. Now was definitely not the time for auditory hallucinations.

"Bones," his voice came to her again, more insistent. "Can you hear me?"

The earpiece! In her concentration, she'd already forgotten about the unobtrusive transmitter Booth had nestled in her ear earlier.

"I can hear you," she replied. "But I look like I'm talking to myself."

The deep rumble of his laughter sounded like it was actually coming from inside her brain. "Booooones… this is your conscience… you have a sudden craving for a giant slice of cherry pie…."

She laughed. "It's going to take some getting used to this, Booth. It's very strange to have your voice inside my head."

"I think it's fantastic, Bones. Maybe you'll finally listen to me like you should have all along."

"No, Booth, I'll certainly _hear_ you, but that doesn't mean I'll _listen_ to you."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Is anyone else there?" she asked nervously.

"Not yet, but I have to say there's a definite…interest in this case here in the office. I'll let you know when the eavesdroppers stop by."

"Trish is coming over with the manager now. Stop talking to me."

"Bones, I'm hurt."

The woman approaching her with Trish was quite striking. Tall and angular, with a confident bearing that bordered on the intimidating. Mid-sixties, Brennan guessed from the looks of her hands and gait, but she appeared much younger.

"Mariam, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan. Dr. Brennan, Mariam vos Venet," Trish handled the introductions.

"Welcome," Mariam said, shaking Brennan's hand firmly.

"Thank you for allowing us access to your club," Brennan replied.

"Agent Kazansky here has assured me that you'll be as unobtrusive as possible."

Brennan nodded. "I'm only here to observe your clients."

Mariam nodded. "Certainly let me assist you if I can. My employees know you'll be here and won't bother you. They don't know the nature of your presence, however, for obvious reasons."

"We appreciate your discretion," Trish said.

"And I, in turn, appreciate yours," Mariam replied with an icy tilt to her lips.

"Won't your employees be curious about what I'm doing here?" Brennan asked.

"My employees aren't in the business of asking questions." Mariam answered. "My only concern is… what will you do if you identify the man you're looking for? I can't have any sort of … altercation… in my club," she said disdainfully.

"If I can identify our suspect, I'll simply inform my partner. Ideally, we'll have plainclothes agents waiting to arrest him when he leaves."

"Very good," Mariam nodded, slinking away to the front of the club.

Trish placed a comforting hand on Brennan's arm, seeming to understand the anxiety roiling in her stomach. "You'll be fine, Dr. Brennan. One last thing: let's agree on a safety word—it's standard in situations like this. Something unique enough that it won't come up in normal conversation. Just in case you're in a situation where you can't speak freely to us. Just say the safety word and we'll have agents in here within ten minutes to get you out. If you're uncomfortable, or feel like you're in danger in any way. Got it? Now what word would you like to use?"

Brennan paused, caught offguard. She said the first thing that came to her mind: "Jasper."

Trish only nodded. "Sounds fine to me. Well, I think Mark just about has you set up. We'll be leaving soon. Is there anything you need before we go, Dr. Brennan?" Trish asked.

_Don't go. _"No, Trish, thank you. I'll be fine."

As the agents offered a last parting nod before exiting the club, Brennan settled into position. She heard Booth's quiet laugh echoing softly inside her ear. "Jasper?" he asked. "Not Brainy Smurf?"

Embarrassed, she tugged irritatedly on her ear, as if she could shake him out. "It was just the first thing that came to mind," she said defensively.

"Interesting."

Just then, one of the bartenders approached her with a steaming mug of coffee. "Mariam mentioned you might want some caffeine," he said, setting the drink in front of her.

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Brennan replied. Caffeine was more than welcome.

The worst part of this stakeout, and probably the worst part of any stakeout, would be controlling her boredom so that she didn't lose focus. She wished that she could just have her laptop, or even a notebook with her. Unfortunately, that would more than ruin her carefully assembled disguise.

Stretching her arms up over her head, she arched her spine and twisted gently to each side, attempting to alleviate the tension that had already settled in her muscles. A soft groan escaped her lips as she gently manipulated her neck. It was just anxiety, she told herself, amplifying the normal effects of a long day. Her fingers found the hard planes beneath her temples and rubbed in soothing circles. The sharp prodding made her moan quietly. The club wasn't even open yet and she already felt drained. She took several quick, cleansing breaths, inhaling deeply through her nostrils and exhaling in quick succession, almost like she was panting. Yoga breaths almost always calmed her down; she just needed to keep a steady rhythm.

Across town, her partner sat motionless and pale-faced as he listened to what he could only think of as _sex noises_ repeating softly through her transmitter. He closed his eyes and got lost in the sound of her breathing, a flesh-tone swirl of images rising unbidden from his mind. He couldn't fight the sudden tightness in his pants, or the light sheen of perspiration that tickled his brow. He felt like a voyeur, listening in on something private. What the hell was she doing? What the hell was _he _doing?


	7. Chapter 7

Agent Booth's partner was a frequent topic of conversation in the office. For starters, because he was the only agent at the DC Field Office to be permanently paired with a non-Bureau partner. Also, because Booth and Brennan's solve rate was mind-boggling. And then there was the matter of his partner's bizarre personality and undeniable hotness. But even beyond that, it was their interaction that fueled the office gossip. There was no one in the Field Office who hadn't been privy to one of their incessant arguments, no one who hadn't been left in the wake of their impenetrable bubble of bickering as they strode through the office. Some people thought they actively hated each other, but more people thought they were sleeping together (and trying to reconcile _that _with the information that Brennan was dating Hacker himself was keeping the gossips salivating). Booth's direct reports, however, insisted that their boss's relationship with his partner was professional. At least to the extent that they weren't shacking up. Because even Charlie had to admit that their dynamic went well beyond a professional one in the traditional sense. But it was undeniable that Booth-and-Brennan watching had become one of the staff's favorite shared pastimes in the last few years.

And this case in particular was going to be an interesting one for them to observe. It was all over the office that Brennan was going undercover as a prostitute, and that the target of her sting was none other than number four on their Most Wanted list. Bringing down a number was always a huge deal, a high-profile and widely watched operation. Everyone knew that Quijano had become a personal vendetta for the Bureau brass, and each member of the staff had shared in the frustration when they'd lost his trail after investing so much time and expense gathering intel. So it was not only that there was a lot riding on this case that interested them, but the fact that Hacker had chosen to send a squint into the field, without her partner or any other backup, to take Quijano down. The Assistant Director generally had his reasons, but it seemed like a very strange and risky decision. They all agreed that the amount of confidence Hacker must have in this squint was astonishing. Either that, or she had dumped him and he was purposefully trying to get her killed.

And then Mark had innocently mentioned how effective Trish's makeover of Dr. Brennan had been, and gossip had spread like wildfire about the doctor's unexpected transformation from buttoned-down scientist to '_Temptress Brennan'_. Since then, there had been an almost audible buzz of curiosity surrounding Booth's office, and a ridiculous number of agents suddenly had deskwork that they claimed would keep them in the office well into the evening hours. Booth was obviously on edge, all traces of his usual good humor evaporated, and Charlie knew from direct observation that even in the best of moods, his boss didn't tolerate any sort of comment about his partner's… well, _assets. _SoCharlie had been tirelessly running interference to keep the rubberneckers out of Booth's office, where the audio and video transmitter from Brennan were set up. He was doing his best to keep the gossips from becoming the spark that would light his boss's short fuse, but he was having trouble keeping the gawkers away.

Booth was ensconced in his office, leaning into the monitors spread across his desk, watching Agent Kazansky and a thin, older woman having a conversation. While the picture from his partner's concealed necklace camera was as clear as Mark had promised, he found it frustrating that the one person he most wanted to check on would never be in front of the camera. Or, almost never, he reminded himself. There had been a moment soon after Brennan entered the club that she had passed in front of a mirror, providing Booth with a split-second reflection of her sylph-like form. Just enough to reassure him, and just enough to newly enrage him at the obscenely revealing outfit Trish had seen fit to tart her up in. Just thinking of it still made his jaw clench. Nobody had a right to see his partner in that way…well, almost nobody, he amended. It made his mouth dry just remembering the all-too-perfect feline cast of her eyes as she'd calmly surveyed him over her beer, looking cool as ice and hot as flame all at the same time. He mentally willed Quijano to go to the club tonight, so they could collar this bastard and get it over with, and she could get that damned dress off, and …nope. _No_, he thought, _that was even worse_.

Refocusing his eyes on the monitor, he studied Mariam. A pretty tough piece of business, he decided. Smart, wily. She understood the tenuous position she was in, operating an illegal brothel directly under the thumb of the FBI, but was ballsy enough to still make her own demands of Brennan. And there was something about her voice that grated his nerves… reedy, cold. It would please him beyond measure to bust her right after taking Quijano in, and he planned to talk to Hacker about it. He understood the necessity of the little deal the Bureau had made with her, but he was never much for keeping his promises to criminals.

He had pinned the small microphone he would use to talk to Bones directly to his collar, and he hadn't wanted to mute it in case he needed to talk to her. He had to continually remind himself to stay silent, repressing the urge to swear under his breath at this ridiculous situation. The last thing her partner needed was to be distracted by his needy complaining. Finally, he heard Trish take her leave and then Brennan was alone. Some guy brought her some coffee, temporarily blocking Booth's sightline to the club's front door and he found himself actually waving the bastard away as if anyone could see him. Booth noted that Mariam's bartenders looked more like bouncers. Smart woman, he thought. He knew she had her own security detail in the back of the club, monitoring the video feeds from the discreet cameras placed around The Moonlight, which Mark had been able to patch him into. Mariam's little brothel was a major-scale business, and she pulled in more than enough money to afford a decent security team. Hacker hadn't felt it necessary for Booth to spend any time investigating her security detail, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him; Booth wasn't cutting any corners when his Bones safety was at risk.

It still pissed him off that Hacker refused to put any of their own agents in the club, or to let him go in as a bartender even—hell, he could make a decent gin and tonic. He understood that the Assistant Director was being overly cautious about keeping a low profile, and knew he couldn't trust the club's employees not to tip off Quijano to the presence of any obvious law enforcement agents. A paranoid, career criminal like Quijano could have moles anywhere. And on that note, he had to admit that Hacker's decision to send Dr. Brennan in was possibly genius. _Nothing_ about her read 'government agent.' But Booth still had to marvel at the guy's balls. To send a woman he was interested in into such a dangerous situation seemed... moronic. But then, this was Bones. She'd practically _thanked the asshole _for risking her life.

And then, out of nowhere, she'd started moaning. _Moaning._ Quiet breathy little sounds that he'd almost thought he'd imagined at first, and his body had clenched in instant response. He'd never really thought about women's voices before he'd met Bones but it was one of the first things he'd noticed about her. There was something old-fashioned about the way she phrased her words, the slight rasp in her softness that seemed to squeeze melody out of even the must mundane comments. And he'd never counted his own ears as erogenous zones until he heard that breathy panting issuing through her receiver. He closed his eyes and listened_, _discovering for the first time in his life that ears could feel _hungry._

When her breathing returned to normal, his still hadn't. He realized he was holding a lungful of frustration and slowly exhaled, allowing a few minutes of silence in order to collect himself.

"How ya doing, Bones?" he checked in, struggling to keep his tone light.

"Bored already," she replied quietly. "I've been reciting the periodic table in my head. You interrupted me on the noble gases."

He laughed. "My apologies."

"How's your view?" she asked. "Let me know if you need me to reposition myself. Hopefully you're looking at the front door right now."

"Yeah, you're great right where you are. I saw those first couple doofuses walk in just a minute ago."

"Definitely not our guy," she sighed. "What if he doesn't come in?"

"Then we've both wasted a fat lot of time, but you're still safe, and I'm a happy man."

He heard her sigh, and could tell from the precise sound of it that she had smiled. He knew her sighs encyclopedically, and which exact smile or frown that they matched with. Being unable to see her face was making him extraordinarily sensitive to the nuances of that intoxicating voice. He wondered if she felt the same strange intimacy too.

"Bones, I've got some spectators on their way in, FYI. It seems like a lot of agents suddenly have a lot of paperwork to get through tonight. It's packed in here."

"They're just curious about Quijano," she placated, understanding immediately how irritated the office gossips made him.

"Something like that…" he mumbled under his breath. "You know, Bones, if you were to move just a few feet to your right, I think I'd be able to see you on the club's security feed."

"No good," she replied. "The sightline would be blocked by that support pillar."

Scowling, he muttered an agreement. It was really killing him that he couldn't see her. Seeing the room from her perspective was nice and all, but he wanted to see _her._ Although, remembering how she looked right now, maybe it was better for his concentration that he couldn't.

Hacker and Charlie walked into his office as he slid his microphone to mute.

"Is Temperance in place?" Hacker asked without preamble. The man looked almost as tense as Booth.

"She's in place."

"Alright, Mark's on call if anything goes wrong with the tech." Hacker shifted awkwardly, seemingly undecided if he should stay or not. He wanted to personally watch the trap he'd sprung for Quijano, but hadn't missed the possessive way that Booth had spread himself in front of the monitors, guarding his partner physically just as if she was actually in the room. After Booth's none-too-subtle warning in his office, Hacker knew that he was on shaky ground with his best agent, and didn't want to push him. "Call me the minute anything goes down," he said.

Booth nodded tersely and Hacker took his leave. Charlie looked at his boss with something approaching sympathy. "I'll try to keep them out of your way," he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the peanut gallery behind him. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Coffee," Booth said succinctly. "And a padlock for the door," he added wryly. "Thanks Charlie."

**AN: Xoxoxo to everyone who's been reviewing-- you're the only things keeping my ridiculous one-chapter-per-day promise fulfilled! Thanks sincerely, all! : )**


	8. Chapter 8

The evening was dragging into its fifth hour, and Brennan's eyes were getting heavy from trying to stay alert. The club had gotten too packed for her to be able to surreptitiously talk to Booth, and she'd probably have to shout to be heard over the music anyway. It was comforting to know that he was likely feeling the same exhaustion as he stared into the monitors back at his office. But she wished he was there with her, to take the tedium out of this stakeout. It was his special gift, she ruminated, to make almost any situation more entertaining. She couldn't remember a time when she'd grown weary of his company, which was saying a lot for her. Even from their shaky start as partners, even when they argued, she had to admit that the man was invigorating.

She amused herself by observing the clientele, especially Mariam's employees. It was truly fascinating, if perhaps in a tragic way, to wonder what circumstances would lead a woman to a career like this. Though she reluctantly admitted that, given the alternatives, a relatively safe place like The Moonlight was a good deal better than working alone on the streets. Some of the women were extremely beautiful. She wondered how many of them possessed anything beyond physical attractiveness.

She had shared her maudlin view on prostitution with Booth once, hypothesizing that economic hardship was the only real motivator for a woman to accept such a demeaning line of work. He had disagreed, telling her not to be so naïve. Some of these girls come from good homes, he'd told her. _Never underestimate someone's willingness to sell themselves out for a quick payday; there's not a lot that some people won't do for fast money._ She couldn't be entirely that jaded, but his opinion had left her wondering about these women's backgrounds even more.

"Checking in, Bones," his voice came in her ear.

"I'm fine," she replied quietly.

"Way to handle that asshole, by the way. Mariam's going to be pissed if she hears about this, but I liked your sass."

He was referring to a small, overly tan man who had sauntered up to Brennan a few minutes ago...

_He'd leaned on the table so that his diminutive head was level with the cleavage he was studying intently. "Haven't seen you here before," he told Brennan's breasts._

"_I'm not interested," she replied coolly, trying not to be distracted by Booth's angry muttering in her ear._

"_Baby, why don't you let me get to know you, buy you a drink. I'm an interesting guy..."_

"_Herpes," Brennan replied in an robotic tone, "syphilis, gonorrhea."_

_Wincing, the man backed away immediately, cocking his head as if waiting her the punchline of her joke. But Brennan merely shrugged helplessly to indicate that she wasn't kidding. The man had disappeared into the crowded murk almost instantaneously._

She smiled. "My first proposition. Definitely one for my diary, don't you think, Booth?"

"Maybe it _is_ a good thing I'm not there," he answered. "Killing a customer with my bare hands might be bad for Mariam's business."

"Quite possibly," she agreed. "How are you doing?"

"Better than you, apparently. Do you want me to pick up some antibiotics for you? That's a tough trifecta..." he teased.

"Very funny. You know that I'm a paragon of health."

_Paragon? _He rolled his eyes and smiled. "Anyway... I'm just watching the game, having a few beers, doing some laundry. Normal Friday night," he joked. "Actually, I'm going to go grab some takeout. Would you like anything? Maybe a nice tofu-sprout-eggplant salad?"

"Mmm," she considered. "I'm thinking a nice rare steak. Extra bloody."

"Bones," he whined, "you know that too much red meat is unhealthy. I think you should get a wheatgrass smoothie instead, with extra sludge."

"It's unnatural to eat so much vegetation, Booth," she complained in a parody of his voice. "Human beings are carnivores."

His laughter tickled inside her ear canal. "Actually, Bones, it's more correct to say that human beings are _omnivores_. Anthropologically speaking, blah blah blah blah blah," he continued.

She laughed out loud at his teasing. "Stop it. Someone's going to hear me laughing for no reason and think I'm insane."

"Sexy and insane is a good combo, Bones."

She paused. Had he just called her _sexy_? She was glad the dim ambiance of the club would cover the wild blush that crept over her face. He thought she was sexy?

"Um, Bones, Hacker wants an update, be back in a few," he said quickly, as the transmitter in her ear went silent.

She took a slug of her fourth cup of coffee of the evening and collapsed weakly against the banquette. He'd ended the conversation so fast she hadn't had a chance to think of a response. What was the protocol for a situation like this? Should she have said thank you? Or _I think you're sexy too_? Cringing at her awkwardness, she resolved to do better. The next time Booth paid her a compliment, she thought with Angela's voice invading her subconscious, she would pay him one right back.

o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0 o)oxo(0o)oxo(0o)oxo(0

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, _he berated himself, grinding his hands through his hair. What the hell was he thinking? How had that slipped out? And then his cowardly little lie about Hacker needing a report, which any idiot could tell was just his half-assed excuse to get the hell out of the conversation. _Dumbass_! Now he'd certainly pissed her off, and he'd have to endure a lecture on his disrespectful alpha-male tendency to objectify women. It's just that he'd felt it again: the surprising intimacy of her throaty voice in the dark emptiness of his office at night. It felt like they were alone, even though she was packed into a teeming nightclub full of whores and johns, and he had an office full of nosy agents outside his door. How had he made such a stupid slip-up? For Christ's sake, Bones was at work, in an unfamiliar and dangerous situation, and he couldn't keep himself from _flirting_ with her like a hormonal teenager.

This case was going to give him an ulcer. It felt profoundly unnatural not to be beside her, not to be her backup. Yeah, she was more than able to protect herself, and was certainly smarter than he'd ever be, but she was also far too brave for her own good. And in a situation like this, swirling with the murkiness of human interaction, she was miles out of her element. There was very little pure science to be found amongst the human refuse of a brothel, and it killed him to think of her sitting alone in the center of that maelstrom. None of this partnerly concern, however, explained his need to tell her how _sexy_ she was.

Time to get a grip, he chastised himself. You can't put your partner in jeopardy with stupid distractions like this. She was probably so irritated with him right now that she wouldn't be able to concentrate. Her safety had to come before his selfish needs—after all, that was the motivation behind that damn line he drew. Grimly, he resolved never to make such an asinine comment to her again.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: I'm a horrible jerk! Real life got all up in my business last night and I barely got this chapter finished for this morning, so I'm a bit behind on my responses for all you lovely reviewers. Many apologies. I'm going to do my best to hide from real life for awhile so that I might catch up on more important things. : )**

As the last client disappeared into a private suite with one of Mariam's employees, Brennan finally slid down from her perch, stretching her sore muscles. She had stared at the customers all night, studying each man in turn. Some old, some young, some healthy, some frail—but none Quijano. She wasn't surprised, hadn't really expected this case to be either quick or easy, and yet she was disappointed nonetheless. Her first full shift at the club had been a shocking lesson in how deadly dull a stakeout really was. She missed her work; she missed her partner. Groaning softly at the stiffness in her shoulders, she wondered if Booth was as exhausted from the observation as she was.

"Booth, are you there?" she asked.

"Yes." He had been uncharacteristically non-communicative after ending their prior conversation so abruptly. She wondered if Hacker had been displeased with the brief Booth had given him.

"No luck tonight," she said regretfully. "I'm heading upstairs to get some sleep. Mariam's just locking up now."

"Okay," he replied. "Good work tonight, Bones. I know how difficult it is to keep your focus hour after hour like this. And I know you're disappointed that we didn't nab him, but we will." His voice sounded deeper, raspier at the end of the day. He laughed softly, "And on the plus side, I now have full video of about a hundred different guys that I can bust for soliciting, if I'm ever in a bad mood."

She smiled at that. "I had a lot of time to think about those men tonight. Some of them just looked… lonely."

"Not this again," he sighed. "Bones, you have to stop being so sympathetic to whores and lowlife criminals."

"I'm not sympathetic, I'm just making an observation."

"Well it's not like you to make an observation about whether someone looks lonely or not."

"It's not like me to dress like a prostitute either, Booth, so I guess this day has been a riot of surprises."

His soft laughter was soothing in its familiarity. "That's fair. But for the record, you don't look like a prostitute."

"What? Of course I do. Trish assured me that I make a very convincing facsimile of one."

He bit his lip to keep the words in. He couldn't tell her that she could never look like a woman who sold herself—could never look cheap, or easy, or common. No amount of fake hair, makeup, or obscene lack of dress could hide the dignity that emanated from inside her or the laser-sharp intelligence in her gaze. If he had walked into The Moonlight, a regular Joe looking for a warm body for the night, his eyes would have found her instantly. She just stood out.

"We'll have to agree to disagree, Bones."

"Well—eeeugh..." her retort was lost in a yawn. She opened the door to the suite that Mariam had selected for her, relieved to see the familiar outline of the luggage Mark had packed for her in the dimly lit room. "I need to get out of these heels so much that I'm about to cry," she said wryly.

"Tell me about it. That's really the primary reason I don't wear heels myself."

"Now that's an interesting mental image," she laughed. Checking herself in the dressing mirror, Brennan noted the exhausted shadows beneath her eyes. "I had no idea how tiring it would be to do _nothing_ all night," she complained. Her reflection stared back at her dejectedly, looking strangely alien in the dark wig and dramatic makeup. She slid her fingers slowly over her browbone, massaging the weariness from her skin.

"Now see, Bones, this is why you're just not normal. Most people excel at doing nothing," Booth commented, happy to finally be able to see his partner via the mirror in her room. She looked utterly wiped, but somehow the vulnerable softness in her face only made her more beautiful. She suddenly shrunk a few inches, having stepped out of her heels.

"Mmm," she groaned. "Yet another normal person skill for me to master I guess." She hitched her shoulder blades together and reached behind herself to pinch her bra clasp open. It felt so nice to be free of its push-up tyranny. Shrugging the wide straps of her dress over her arms, she let the silver fabric drop and pool at her feet, taking the bra along with it.

She heard the sharp intake of his breath in her ear. "Bones," he choked. "Mirror."

She gasped, gathering her arms over her breasts and ducking away from the mirror. "I'm sorry, I forgot!" The camera embedded in her necklace was so discrete, she had failed to remember it was even there.

"It's okay," he said tightly.

"I'm sorry," she babbled. "I'm just tired, not thinking…I…"

"—don't worry about it."

She stifled a groan and glanced down at the scandalously tiny thong that provided her only modesty. "I think I've embarrassed myself just about enough today, Booth. I'm going to go to bed now."

"Okay," he repeated.

"Oh, Booth? I just realized… this little…this is going to be on the footage they'll archive…"

"I'll erase it," he promised.

"Thank you," she said gratefully. "Um, I guess I'll see you tomorrow afternoon for the after-action meeting."

"Yeah. See you then."

She thought his voice sounded strange, and no wonder. What he must be thinking of her right now… "Goodnight, Booth."

"Good night Bones. Sweet dreams."

And with that, his voice disappeared from her hearing. She unclasped the necklace just a tad more viciously than necessary and flung it on the nightstand. It lay coiled like a treacherous snake, just waiting for another chance to strike at her. She grabbed the wad of silver dress puddled on the floor and tossed it on top of the necklace camera, dousing its digital vision surely as water on a lit wick.

Feeling suddenly alone in her room, she opened her laptop. She wanted to check her email, knowing that her team would keep her advised of their progress on the Limbo cases. And she'd promised Angela that she'd teleconference in at the end of each shift. Glancing at the time on the screen, she felt a surge of gratitude towards her friend. Staying awake until 2:30 in the morning just to have a chat was just the kind of thing that made Angela so amazing. And after her inadvertent display to Booth, she really wanted to see her friend right now. But before she appeared on another accidentally spicy video, she threw on her pajamas. She had learned her lesson.

"Sweeeeeeeeeeeeetie!" Angela's smile beamed out from the laptop screen. "You look like you're still in one piece, thank God."

"One very humiliated piece, but yes, one piece," Brennan sighed.

(xoxo)::(xoxo)::(xoxo)::(xoxo)::(xoxo)::(xoxo)::(xoxo)::(xoxo)::(xoxb)::(xoxo)::

_Sweet Jesus good Lord holy shit oh my God._ Booth raked his hands over his eyes, his mind replaying the sight of his partner's pale skin blooming from the shadowy fall of her dress. It was a good thing he was alone in his office, for so many reasons really. So he wouldn't have to murder anyone else for ogling his partner, so there was no one to see how uncomfortably he'd had to shift in his chair as he said goodnight. He groaned, wondering if he'd ever be able to forget the image of her mouth-wateringly full breasts or the hourglass curve of her tiny waist… he sincerely hoped he could forget it, or he might never be able to walk again. Her accidental striptease, fleeting as it had been, was just the cherry of torture atop the torture sundae that had been his day.

His partner was a study in contrasts; a gorgeous, sensual woman trapped in the body of a no-nonsense intellectual. Usually, her academic coolness and professional demeanor were enough to make him forget that her labcoat hid a mouth-watering body… or not forget, really, but overlook that fact enough to focus on the work at hand. But now, having seen all that luminous, pale skin—like starlight—wrapped over the most delicate body…how would he ever be able to forget again? He groaned, swiping his hand over his face. He wanted so badly to take the measure of her ribcage with his hands, to feel the contrast of her softness against his rougher skin. He pictured it, knowing that her breasts would overflow his palms. Nature had been far, far too generous with her, in every way.

When he'd promised his partner he would delete the footage, he hadn't realized that meant he'd have to look at it _again._ He searched desperately in his pocket for his poker chip, clenching it murderously between his fingers. He would honestly rather stroll directly through the entrance of a casino than face the temptation of rewinding that footage. Jumping up from his chair, he paced fiercely across his office. Maybe he could ask someone else to do it, someone female. Maybe Angela could do it. No, he groaned, Bones had sounded so embarrassed, he couldn't just invite someone in to further embarrass her. _Hey,_ _anyone want to help me delete the footage of Bones in a skimpy black thong and nothing else? Cause I'm too much of a baby to do it myself, so by all means, come on in, have a look at my topless partner._ Just thinking of what his subs or any of the other agents would do if they ever saw the footage sent him reeling back into his chair, determined to get rid of it, and fast.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the archive folder that Mark had set up to store the video relay. He scanned the timestamped data for the most recently cached file and double-clicked while inwardly cringing. He was greeted with video from the last hour or so of the evening, the view from Bones' necklace camera still pointed out into the crowded club. He dragged the time slider hesitantly forward. The video stopped on the image of Bones facing the mirror, still clothed, studying her reflection with a slight pout on her lips. Swallowing, he pressed play and did his best to avert his eyes, catching the sudden luminous paleness of her skin only in his peripheral vision. And then she disappeared from the frame, as fast as if she'd been stung. Dragging over the sixty seconds or so of precious footage, he paused, fighting the odd feeling that he was destroying something so beautiful it was almost like art. _Stupid,_ he told himself. _Get rid of this before you do something totally pervy and unforgivable with it._ He clicked Delete, but fleetingly wished he was a different type of man--one who wasn't so pathetically bound by honor to do the right thing. _Stupid fucking decency._

Willing his temperature to return to normal, he tidied his desk and packed away the remnants of his workday. Not his best performance, not by far. He'd flirted shamelessly with his partner, shouted at the subs lurking outside his door, thrown a half-full cup of coffee off his desk when Bones had been propositioned, and generally behaved like some sort of ill-tempered monkeyman, all the while trying to act cool and controlled for his partner. And now, thanks to that necklace camera, it felt like he would _never_ be cool or controlled again.

And while he was erasing things, he realized, he'd have to go in and delete some portions of the audio recording. Calling Bones sexy, even if it was so irrefutably and obviously true, was probably not the kind of thing Hacker would appreciate.


	10. Chapter 10

Brennan awoke to the faint, scratchy sound that passed for 'knocking' when one's door was merely a canvas flap on a large tent.

"Mmmph... come in," she called throatily, sitting up to search out the slit in her mosquito netting. It was the normal rhythm of the days in Guatemala, to nap through the hottest part of the afternoon. Even though sunlight hours were precious, Brennan had only made the mistake of charging through a full day of work once before she found herself sunburned and dehydrated enough to require an IV bag of fluids. Since that experience had laid her up for two full days, she'd respected the local wisdom and come to enjoy the daily nap time.

And also, to enjoy Dr. Cristoba's daily visits.

"Temperance," he called quietly, "time to wake up. Your dominoes aren't going to lose by themselves..."

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she shuffled to the small table and grabbed a bottle of water. Sleeping in the heat always made her feel somehow thick when she woke up. Thick and slow and sultry. Yawning, she pushed a chair companionably towards Dr. Cristoba and offered him a water.

"No thank you, I've brought some Gallo," he laughed, raising a hand threaded with three bottles of the local beer. "Join me?"

"Maybe later." It had taken Brennan a week or so to relax to the fact that the volunteers at the dig tended to drink while they were working. Not to excess, but any time after noon seemed fair game to find them with a beer in their hands when taking a break. At first she'd found it deplorable and unprofessional, but the pragmatic part of her realized that most of the volunteers were here on vacation time and seemed determined to eke at least a little bit of fun out of several weeks spent identifying human remains. All in all, she was proud of herself. The Dr. Brennan they all knew at the Zacapa dig was a very different woman from the Dr. Brennan her coworkers knew back in DC. She complimented herself on adjusting very well indeed.

"You have a faraway look in your eyes, Temperance," he commented, leaning forward across the table to gaze at her more closely. She couldn't help but notice, not for the first time, how handsome the masculine lines of his face were. And he had a habit of doing just this—leaning in, staring at her as if she was the most fascinating creature he'd ever discovered, listening carefully to everything she said, almost studying her. She realized it was all probably an act, and one that likely brought him a lot of success with a lot of women, but she couldn't stay immune from his charms even so.

"I was just thinking about my coworkers back in DC."

"Just coworkers... no one ...special?" he asked slowly, a crafty grin spreading to reveal even, whitened teeth.

She returned his grin and shook her head coyly. "Do those dimples work on other women?"

His smile brightened. "I'm not concerned about _other_ women right now."

Ignoring his flirtation, she shuffled the bones in the middle of the table and flipped her doublets over. She enjoyed the casual friendship that the two of them had developed. And the sexual tension underlying that friendship was making a fairly routine dig much more interesting than expected. She hadn't yet decided if she would return Dr. Cristoba's advances but she liked that he was making them anyway. She had just broken up with Peter before flying to Guatemala, and was generally irritated by men at the moment... but it was possible that a brief fling with Dr. Cristoba would be just what she needed. He certainly looked like he would make an acceptable sexual partner, and his confidence was intriguing.

Untying her handkerchief from around her neck, she grabbed the Nalgene of lavender water that she'd concocted and doused the cotton liberally before wringing the excess water onto the ground. The lavender smelled pleasant as it evaporated, and helped keep biting insects away. It also, she found, had created a strong scent memory to her time in Guatemala. Lavender... and the lingering burnt vanilla of the tiny cigarillos that Dr. Cristoba smoked after dinner.

"Temperance," he whispered, breaking her reverie with the soft lilt of his accent.

Looking up, she was surprised to find his face so close to hers; the subtle shadow of his mid-day stubble pixelating his jaw in a most attractive manner, drawing her curiosity. He knelt before her on the grassy ground, one strong arm still leaning on the table, the other reaching slowly towards her face... she didn't quite like the arrogance in his expression, as if he knew that her consent was a foregone conclusion, but she allowed his kiss anyway. His lips were soft, unhurried as they shifted slowly against hers.

She twisted her fingers into the thick hair at the back of his head and allowed his mouth to trace down her jawline and over her throat. As her head tipped back, she felt pleasantly dizzy, the heat of his body pressing more fully into hers. She stared thoughtlessly at the buckshot of sunlight streaming through the holes in the tent top, at the scattering of bones on the little table, at the bird on the label of his bottle of Gallo. A rooster, she thought idly. It looked familiar...

...It looked... like the belt buckle she clenched between her hands as she brought a man's hips crashing against her own, demanding the delicious pressure of hard contact. Cristoba had morphed somehow into Booth, and immediately became a thousand times more appealing. She couldn't hear the cicadas anymore, couldn't smell the mildewy fustiness of her canvas tent. She could only hear his breath rough in her ear, smell his soap on his skin. Feel the slide of his tongue against hers, slick, wet, surprisingly hot. Urgent.

She couldn't understand how he'd come to be here, how he had usurped Cristoba. After all, she barely knew him; her mind spun with confusion. He was an FBI agent she'd worked with once, and he had irritated her immensely. She'd hoped never to see him again, yet here he was in Guatemala, magically planted in front of her, staring her down with lit embers in the dark charcoal of his eyes, a look that she somehow felt she'd seen before. She didn't know how he was there, but she also didn't care.

She returned his kiss with vengeance, sinking off her chair and down against him as they kneeled together on the soft ground. His arms felt strong and dependable as a cage around her and she arched back, gratified to feel his fingers shoving the spaghetti straps of her tank top impatiently over her shoulders. His mouth attached to the skin he'd just bared, the even curve of his teeth biting down ever so slightly.

"Yes," she moaned, her hips fiercely grinding an unconscious rhythm against his.

His hands gripped her breasts and he growled into her ear, "_Now I know what you've kept hidden_."

And then... nothing. Confused, she rolled over to find an alarm clock staring back at her that wasn't her own. What the hell? A blanket that wasn't hers... an unfamiliar wall... she sat up and scanned the small room, lost in several moments of fog before she remembered where she was. Her room at The Moonlight looked different in the daylight, an irony that amused her even in her sleepy state.

She was absorbed in a particularly delicious stretch when a fragment of her dream came hurtling into her mind. And then another, and another. Guatemala, her memories of Cristoba. _Booth._ Now, where had he come from? Why had her brain decided that her non-fiction recollection of Dr. Cristoba needed to be spiced up with some partner-flavored fiction?

Brennan raised her fingertips reverently to her lips, as if checking for any physical evidence of Booth's searing, belief-shaking kiss. Was this because he'd called her sexy? Or because she hadn't yet had a chance to admit the same thing to him?

Either way, she felt dirty. Ashamed and vaguely... unkind, somehow, as if she had betrayed a friend. She knew very well that she shouldn't think of Booth in a sexual manner. She _knew _that. And yet lately, it was become increasingly difficult to follow her own advice. Thinking about him when Trish dressed her up, enjoying the soft gravel of his voice in her ear, and now dreaming about kissing him... oh God, it was embarrassing. If he had any idea that she'd dreamed of such a thing, Brennan had no doubt that Booth would kindly but firmly annihilate her ego in one well-intentioned speech about professional boundaries. He simply didn't feel the same way about her and she would have to come to terms with that. Temperance Brennan, the woman smart and hard-working enough to achieve almost all of her goals in life, was simply unable—through either intelligence or diligence—to make a man who thought of her as a partner, a friend, want more.

**AN: Hope that wasn't too confusing; in terms of canon, I'm picturing this particular trip to Guatemala as the one that Brennan was just returning from in the pilot episode. Btw, individual wooden dominoes are traditionally called 'bones'. Funny, no? Also, Gallo really does have a rooster on the label, and as far as beer goes it's not bad... Of course, it's not good either. ; )**


	11. Chapter 11

Showering and getting dressed gave Brennan enough time to reflect on not only the regretful elements of her dream, but the all-too-real debacle of the previous night's striptease. But it had been totally accidental; if Booth had gotten an unfortunate eyeful, he would just have to forgive her. For her first solo stakeout, she thought, things could have gone a lot worse. She'd managed to stay largely in the background as Trish had instructed, attracting very little notice on the whole. And though Quijano hadn't showed, she now felt comfortable with the lay of the club, and the rhythm of her assignment.

Feeling reluctantly defeated, she tossed the wig in her bag. She'd twisted and pretzeled herself into knots attempting to reproduce Trish's French braid on her own before deciding it was cursedly impossible. Instead, she planned to get Angela's help before returning for her second shift at the club. On her way out, she exchanged a businesslike nod with Mariam, who was reviewing receipts at the concierge desk. The woman appeared more pleasant than she had before, and Brennan wondered what had brightened her mood. Was it that she enjoyed the relaxed hours before the club came alive, or was it that she enjoyed counting the money she had made the previous night?

Stepping into the bright sunlight, which seemed almost garish after the perpetual twilight of the club, Brennan realized she didn't have her car. But before she'd even formed another thought, she saw Booth's SUV idling at the curb. How convenient! Grinning, she opened the door and hopped in. The surly expression on his face immediately wiped the smile from hers.

"Bones," he said crankily. "I tried to talk to you this morning. Why'd you take your earpiece out?"

She looked at him reproachfully. "I had to go to the bathroom. There's no mute on that thing… and after, after last night… I'm trying to be more mindful of my…spy devices."

That certainly seemed to shut him up. Scowling, he eased the car into traffic. "Just make sure you put it back in before your next shift."

"Thanks for the advice," she mumbled dryly. Maybe he hadn't gotten enough sleep. "Who pooped in _your_ cornflakes?"

"It's _pissed,_ Bones! Who _pissed_ in your cornflakes! Geez…"

"I don't see how that's any more appealing…"

"Just… let's not talk about any bodily fluids in any breakfast foods at all, okay? It's a little early for this."

"Yes, it's breakfast time. Hence the appropriateness of my metaphor." She peered at him more closely, noticing a slightly sallow color beneath the frame of his sunglasses. "Were you drinking last night?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" he demanded.

"You were!" she noted triumphantly. She was getting better at reading him.

"Yeah, well… it was a long night. I just needed to…unwind a little." More accurately, he thought, he had needed to drown the image of her naked skin from his mind before being able to get even a half second of sleep. But sure enough, she'd returned anyway, mermaid-like, slipping from the watery depths of his dreams to torment him all night. In fact, he barely understood how she could sit next to him so casually after the deplorable, animalistic things she'd let him do to her all night in his imagination. _You'd think she'd be tired, _he thought wryly, _or at least too sore to sit down._

But she only leaned her head against the passenger window and ignored him. In truth, she was lost in her own guilty thoughts. It wasn't that she'd never dreamed of her partner before. It was just... somehow different this time. Especially juxtaposed next to her memories of Cristoba, who had been more advertisement than product. The contrast had turned Booth into a superhuman instrument of seduction. She knew that rationally, no man could arouse her as easily as dream-Booth had; what worried her was the underlying motivation for her brain concocting such a deviant fantasy.

Trish and Mark were already gathered in Hacker's office when they arrived. Since there was really very little status to report, the meeting was brief. Hacker was impatient, even bordering on terse, but made sure to compliment Brennan on her seamless performance.

"One problem, though," Mark interrupted. "There was some footage deleted from the archives. I'm looking into how that happened..."

Brennan shot a panicked glance at Booth, who immediately cleared his throat to answer. "That was my fault. I thought I saw a perp I recognized in the club, and I went into the footage to check. Clumsy fingers, I guess," he said ruefully, holding his hands up in a gesture of apology.

Brennan glanced at her partner with barely disguised relief, gratitude welling up within her.

Seemingly satisfied with his explanation, Hacker nodded casually. In reality, the Assistant Director had been shocked that she'd managed to blend in as well as she had, successfully avoiding any squinty mishaps or accidents. And he'd rarely heard Agent Kazansky so ebullient in her praise of another operative. He struggled to tamp down his disappointment that they hadn't found Quijano yet, but was inwardly pleased with his choice to send Dr. Brennan undercover. He realized that it was more than a little unprofessional to be dating the woman that he chose for such an important assignment, but he was just trying to do the best with the situation he was given. He only hoped that she would continue justifying his faith in her, and that Booth wouldn't lose his cool any more than he already had. If this operation was successful, he just might find it in his budget to take the woman who'd brought down Number Four on some sort of romantic vacation.

After adjourning the after-action, Hacker approached Brennan for a private moment. "Again, Temperance, I just want to say how impressed I am. Is there anything you can't do?"

She was still in a slightly pensive mood, and his compliment rang hollow. "Many, many things, I'm sure," she deflected, glancing at Booth lurking in the door frame. Was he waiting for her?

Hacker smiled too widely. "Well, you never fail to amaze me."

Brennan was distracted by Booth's expression. Clearly, he was tense, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something had been odd in his demeanor all morning. He seemed just as uneasy as she felt. Was it possible that her indiscretion with the mirror last night had caused him such awkwardness?

"Temperance?" Hacker asked.

"Sorry. I have a lot on my mind," she replied.

"Could I take you to lunch today? I'm a good listener."

Glancing at her partner again, Brennan shook her head. "I better not. I need to drop in at work, get Angela to braid my hair..." Looking up at Hacker, she found herself wanting to leave as soon as possible.

"I'll take a raincheck then," he announced, his smile slipping only slightly. He reached out to push a wave of hair behind her ear—the same exact way that Booth often had in the past. The similarities and differences in the two sensations struck her forcibly. She stepped back quickly.

"If we're all done here," Brennan spoke briskly to the rest of the room, "I'd like to get back to the lab and get some work done before this evening."

"Wish you could, Bones," Booth replied from his slouched position at the door. "But we have a date with our favorite kiddy psychologist."

Pouting her lips childishly, Brennan whined, "Sweets? Today? But shouldn't we get some sort of moratorium on our counseling sessions while we're on this case?" The partners looked hopefully at Hacker, as he stood to usher them out of his office.

"Nope," he responded. "Standard operating procedure."

"Way to go Bones," Booth hissed quietly in her ear. "Maybe if you hadn't shot him down for lunch..."

"Enjoy your session," Hacker continued, holding the door for them. "And good luck, Temperance."

"I'm competent and prepared, Andrew. I don't believe that luck, as it were, will have any impact on my success," she chided Hacker.

Grinning smugly, Booth ushered Bones from the office with his hand on the small of her back as always. If his hand dropped slightly lower than usual, or held her more firmly than usual, it wasn't his fault; watching her shut down Hacker's lunch offer, knowing damn well that he was the one who'd be taking her out instead, had buoyed Booth's sour mood _almost _to the point of cockiness.


	12. Chapter 12

Sweets seemed more cheerful than usual, so Booth had to wonder if he'd been playing with his action figures before they arrived for their appointment. He laughed inwardly at the idea of Sweets pushing some matchbox cars around his office carpet, his humorless tie flung over his shoulder to stay out of the way, filling his 'zone of truth' with vroom-vroom noises.

As they took their seats, Bones leaned into her partner and whispered, "I'm hungry. There's no food at The Moonlight."

"Let's wrap this up and get you to the diner then, ok Bones?"

Frowning, she pouted. "All I can think about is food. Waffles, orange juice..."

Booth had to suppress a shiver from having her voice so close. His ears had gotten hungry again, it seemed, and it was so ridiculously appropriate that she wouldn't stop talking about food.

"I understand that you weren't able to identify your suspect, but still, I think congratulations are in order, Dr. Brennan," Sweets interrupted, as they settled into their usual arrangement. "You managed to keep your cover admirably, and Agent Kazansky's notes on your work so far are glowing. Maybe the Bureau should be making you a job offer," he teased.

Brennan shook her head in total seriousness. "I sincerely doubt the Bureau could afford me."

"I wasn't actually…" Sweets trailed off awkwardly.

"While I can't be totally certain, I suspect that I make more than both of you combined," she added factually.

Booth scowled at his partner. "Yeah? Well I get a gun."

Taking no offense at all, Brennan murmured thoughtfully, "That _is _true," as if this fact alone might make her reconsider her employer.

"Okay, back on topic," Sweets interjected, making an exaggerated funnel motion with his hands. "Going undercover as a prostitute must be very emotionally difficult for you, Dr. Brennan. I'd like to discuss this, and make sure you're handling the stress appropriately."

"It's not difficult at all. It's boring, but I wouldn't say it's been difficult. Andrew told me I pulled off my disguise admirably."

"Adequately," Booth corrected, tipping his head in irritation.

"Admirably."

"That's not what he said--he said adequately," Booth replied.

"You don't think I did well?" Brennan demanded, her confidence suddenly slipping.

"What? I didn't say that...it's just... I still wish you weren't on this case, that's all."

"You don't think I can handle it?" she demanded.

"Bones, listen. All I'm saying is that undercover work like this is dangerous-- we should have a trained agent in there, not you."

Feeling something cold settle in her stomach, she lashed out. "Well Andrew has faith in me. I'm sorry that you don't, or can't."

Booth sputtered angrily. She was deliberately misunderstanding him. He was unprepared for this conversation, especially in front of Sweets, and didn't know how to answer without pissing off his partner or broadcasting exactly how well he _did _think she was pulling off the assignment. Or how much he was beginning to truly, genuinely hate that dipshit Hacker.

"It's never been a question of _faith,_ Bones," he spoke quietly. "Stop twisting my words."

Brennan was stung by his apparently low opinion of her performance on the case. Frowning, she also noted with displeasure how easily Booth's criticism seemed to rattle her self-esteem. It wasn't at all like her to be so easily shaken. Frankly, it made her angry at herself.

Turning pointedly to Sweets, she said, "I think perhaps it's Booth who's having trouble handling the stress of this case. Or maybe he's sulking because he's stuck in his office while I'm out in the field."

"Hey!" Booth exclaimed, unused to his partner _tattling _on him to Sweets.

"Well you've been cranky with me all day, and I don't know why. And now apparently you think I'm not able to handle this undercover assignment."

"I never said that, Bones. I know you can handle this. I... maybe I just have a little trouble seeing you as a prostitute, okay?"

"Well you had no trouble telling me I was sexy."

"You told Dr. Brennan she was sexy?" Sweets interrupted.

"No. Yes. …I don't remember," Booth growled, flipping his cell phone open in the desperate hope that he'd find a call there. No such luck.

"I think we should examine this," Sweets pushed.

"I think we're done." Booth stood abruptly.

"Agent Booth, please," Sweets said, motioning him to return to his chair. "In my time spent working therapeutically with the two of you, I've rarely seen Dr. Brennan this anxious. Your partner is on a difficult case and she needs your support."

Booth whirled on the psychologist, eyes flaring with temper, his hands clenched on his hips. "That's low, Sweets, and you know it. Going for _guilt _like that?"

Agent's Booth stance was not only aggressive, but served to push his suit jacket behind his hips in a way that showed his holstered weapon clearly. It was an action that was both subconscious and conscious, Sweets decided. The therapist raised his hands in supplication.

In the awkward silence, Booth glanced at Bones. She was sitting primly in her chair, gaze pointed at her slender fingers twining nervously. Booth knew he had been bested; the kid shrink had gone straight for his Achilles heel with ruthless accuracy. He returned slowly to his chair, resting his head in his hands in utter exhaustion. He felt completely empty.

"Now Agent Booth, I'm hearing that you have a lot of concern for Dr. Brennan's safety on this case."

"Yes," he hissed. "Is that so inappropriate?"

Sweets sat back in his chair, observing them closely, pondering Booth's choice of the word _inappropriate_. He felt like he was getting very close to the crux of the issue. These two had never before revealed such intense emotion in front of him, and it finally gave him something to work with, to turn over and examine.

He addressed his question to Booth. "You yourself have taken Dr. Brennan into situations far more dangerous than this in the past. Why does her safety matter more now than it used to?"

He waited a beat for his words to sink in. The partners were still avoiding eye contact.

"And Dr. Brennan," Sweets continued, "I'm hearing that your confidence is shaken. In the past, you've created your own self-reliance without needing Booth's approval _or_ faith in you. Why does his opinion of you matter more than it used to?"

He waited in the silence, mentally urging them to just make that leap already. To just see what everyone else saw, what _strangers_ saw, what was so undeniable and obvious that it made him want to shriek with impatience. And it seemed like he would continue to be denied; they weren't talking.

Allowing his own anger and disappointment to refract through his expression, Sweets leaned forward and waited until he held both their gazes. "Something has changed. Between the two of you. And it's not about the case. It's much deeper than that." He took a deep breath and inflected his words with quiet intensity. "You need to figure out what's changed."

He watched as they both risked cautious glances at each other, read the vulnerability and fear on their faces. If they could only see what he saw, they would realize that their expressions were an exact mirror of the other's. And as much as he wanted to continue picking at old scabs, Sweets knew that they could never heal this wound in front of him. So he swallowed his own selfish curiosity and did what was best for his patients—something he had never done before.

Crossing the room, he opened the door and stood there dismissively. "Go."

They looked up in confusion. Brennan cast an inquisitive look at Booth, clearly seeking his judgment. Booth looked suspicious, as if he was working out the angles of some sort of trap.

"Just go," Sweets repeated. "I can't help you with this. You need to figure it out for yourselves. And frankly, you're exhausting my patience."

With one last shared look of hesitation, they each rose from their seats and slowly exited his office. Brennan looked back with a question in her eyes but Sweets closed the door gently in their faces.

Loosening the knot of his tie viciously, he sighed. Why did he feel like a parent who had just disciplined his children?

**AN: My schedule has blown up viciously in my face, and I probably won't have time to respond to any reviews on this one; so if you do drop me a line, please accept my thanks in advance and I apologize for being so rude. You guys are the very best! : )**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Check out the commitment, people-- I had almost no time last night and had to choose between writing a chapter and watching the new Bones and I wrote the damn chapter! Now that I think of it, that's awful... Again, obsequious and heartfelt gratitude to everyone for reviewing. My schedule should lighten up by the weekend, and I'll have time to thank you all properly. Also, please don't hate me for this chapter... : )**

That evening found Brennan perched in her usual spot, studying the stream of bleak-looking men wandering through the club's front doors. For a second, she'd thought she'd found Quijano, but closer inspection revealed a man who was several inches too short to be a match. Another man had caught her attention, if only to surmise at the possible cause of his injuries; his limp and pronation indicated long-healed injuries to both femurs, suggesting a car accident or some other type of massive single trauma. And there was a man whose shoulder-to-hip ratio hinted that he'd been born biologically female. And another man whose musculature was so egregiously over-developed that he must be pumped full of steroids and human growth hormones. With these few, diverting exceptions, watching the johns come and go was just as wearying as it had been the previous night.

Her eye kept darting rebelliously towards the women, bedazzled and spangled as they were, their dresses sparkling under the fiber optic lights of the dance floor. She thought of peacocks, of cardinals, of scarlet tanagers—but her metaphor was backwards. In the avian world, the males of each species sported the flashy plumage while the females appeared drab. Brennan cocked her head and studied the crowd, watching the milling mating dance of the shabby men flitting between the extravagant women with curiosity. Brennan wasn't a woman who worried overly about her looks, and yet she had enjoyed dressing up. If she was bold enough to be honest with herself, she would have admitted that she enjoyed dressing up _for Booth._ But she wasn't; not tonight, anyway.

Her thoughts scattered to their lunch at the diner. The meal had been singed with silence and excessive politeness. Their hands had collided over the top of the napkin dispenser once and sent them both reeling into awkwardness. Brennan regretted it, mourned the loss of their friendly ease, and she inwardly found herself cursing Sweets not for the first time. She knew he was right; she could sense the change in their relationship profoundly. But Sweets had simply cut them loose to figure it out for themselves, which she didn't appreciate. It was like he lit the fuse on a bomb and then sauntered away, leaving them to find their own cover before the explosion.

_Maybe we should talk about... you know, about... us.... after the case,_ Booth had said. She couldn't read the expression in his eyes. Was he being as cowardly as she was? Or was he pragmatically attempting to limit her distractions so that she could continue focusing on the job?

Not that she was focusing anyway. Dejected, she sighed quietly to herself, and wasn't surprised that Booth had somehow managed to detect the sound.

"What's up, Bones?" his voice issued into her ear.

"Nothing," she replied quietly.

"Ah. I thought maybe those heels were getting to you again."

She could hear the smile in his voice and pictured his face perfectly. It was the smile he wore when he was kidding, which was different than the smile he wore when he was teasing, and different from the smile he wore when he was genuinely happy to see her, and _very_ different from that charming smile he could wield like a weapon when he was trying to get his way. This kidding smile was the one he wore when trying to reassure her. Knowing that he was still on the other side of that receiver, trying to be supportive even after the morning's argument, made her feel somehow hopeful.

"Maybe I should convince Trish to dress me up as a casual, sporty prostitute," she mused. The idea brought another rueful sigh. "It would be so comfortable…I could wear sweatpants and sneakers and underwear more substantial than _dental floss_."

The silence from her earpiece made her wonder if she'd lost the connection. "Booth?" she asked.

"Yeah," his voice sounded choked and she heard the sound of him coughing. "I'm here."

"You okay?"

"Um, my coffee," he replied, still coughing. "It's… too hot."

"Oh," she replied.

"Way, way too hot. It's probably going to kill me, it's so unbelievably hot."

Confused, she replied vacantly. "You should be more careful."

He laughed darkly. "Yeah, Bones, I probably should."

And just like that, it seemed they had slipped back into their strange little world of sightless communication, where his voice sounded warm and intimate, and made her wonder at times if he was actually... flirting.

"I was just wondering whether I could convince Trish to let me wear a more comfortable outfit. Surely there are some clients who don't need to see their sex objects in formal wear," she said.

"What are you thinking, Bones? Big fuzzy slippers?"

"Mmmm," she purred. "That would be _so_ nice." Her exhaustion was really getting to her—the thought of being home, in her comfy oversized t-shirt, and slipping into her own bed, seemed nearly narcotic to her. "Maybe I could be more of a pajamas prostitute," she laughed.

"Well now, Bones, I'm unable to offer my professional opinion on that, since I don't really know what your pajamas look like," he replied.

"Unfortunately, nothing that Trish would be likely to agree to. Usually just a t-shirt. But a really soft one, you know? One that's been through the laundry too many times." She did her best to swallow a lazy yawn. "I don't suppose there are any men, though, who'd find that alluring," she sighed.

Booth's silence stretched long enough to make her wonder again if their connection was malfunctioning. Finally, his voice came softly over the earpiece. "I think some men would."

Something in his voice snapped her out of her reverie. What was she doing, describing her sleeping attire to her partner? She'd been mentally accusing him of flirting, but what was she guilty of? It was entirely unprofessional, and if his slowness to respond was any indication, was making him uncomfortable in the way he always got squeamish when she shared too much detail about her personal life. Embarrassed, she sought an escape from the conversation.

"Booth, I need to, um… bathroom break. I'm taking out my earpiece, okay?" Without waiting for his response, she retrieved the tiny transmitter and buried it in her purse. Shaking her head to try and clear her thoughts, she slid lower against the leather of the banquette, wondering whether anyone would notice if she kept sliding downwards until she was underneath the table, where she could maybe hide for just a few years.

Across town, Andrew Hacker finished listening to the previous night's audio recording and slid his headphones off dejectedly. He'd been so excited to listen in on real casework, to get a feeling for an active operation even if fleetingly. But then he'd heard them clearly sharing their own language, somehow making an evening on the job just about the two of them. It wasn't even the content of their conversation that bothered him. If he'd been the jealous type, he might have classified their behavior as flirtatious, but he believed what Booth had told him about the two partners not being romantically involved. What _was _clear, however, was that they were deeply involved in so many other ways; he began to wonder if Temperance Brennan had any room in her life for another man.

He realized with a tragic sort of clarity that Booth was the unit of measurement by which Temperance would assess him. And he didn't doubt that, regardless of his impressive job and mediocre guitar-playing, he would come up short. The two of them just had so many years of shared history. He wanted to hate Booth but couldn't even bring himself to do it. He tapped his fingers nervously against the burnished walnut of his desk. It seemed like he was in a fight or flight situation, to paraphrase his favorite anthropologist. If he truly wanted her, he wouldn't care about his odds of winning her. He would just keep trying.

Hacker weighed the options in his mind, imagining his family's reaction to bringing a best-selling author home for Christmas, imagining finally taking her to bed, imagining quiet weekends in his country home in the Hamptons. They could have a life together. Of all the women he'd dated recently (which was a much shorter list than he liked to admit), Temperance was the only one he felt motivated to pursue with purpose. She was a prize, and one he damn well wanted.

Resolutely, Hacker stood and turned down the hallway in the direction of Booth's office. Wresting Temperance's attention from her partner would be a difficult challenge, but he held an ace in his hand. Bringing down Quijano was _his_ case, and maybe it was time for him to start playing a more active role in the investigation.


	14. Chapter 14

Booth sat mulling over his disturbing new sensitivity to his partner's voice. His sense of hearing had grown too delicate, too focused on each nuance of her breath and each twist in her tone and each sigh. It was like her speech had taken on a character wholly different from the rest of her. While the scientist remained professional, the _voice _promised him sweet and dirty things. He wondered if she knew how she sounded to a man, how smoky and warm and caressing. Having that sound in his ear every night was melting his ability to concentrate. He wanted to hear Bones' middle-of-the-night voice the way it was meant to be heard, dammit—coming from the pillow next to his own.

It was all so distracting that Booth had to struggle to find words that sounded normal. He searched his memory for all the things he used to say to his partner, like an actor asking for his lines. All the words bubbling suddenly to his mind were inappropriate, because this case had his thoughts skittering into dangerous areas. He'd heard the old adage about absence making the heart grow fonder, but this was ridiculous. He'd worked dozens of cases side by side with his partner and had managed to keep it together, only to start losing it now when she wasn't even next to him.

It was these distractions that almost made him miss the change in Bones' conversation, her words soft over the evening din of the club.

"...because I guess I still find it hard to believe that Dr. Cristoba was really a criminal the whole time..."

"Yeah, well. You only spent a few weeks together, Bones, don't beat yourself up. I mean, how well did you really know the guy?"

"...Fairly well, I would say..."

Something sneaky in her tone sent possessive shards of anger shooting through him. "Bones—listen, you know I'm the last person to pry into your personal life--"

He was interrupted by a rude snort.

"--but this impacts the case. I have to know. Were you and Quijano... did you two..."

Defensively, her voice hitched. "We were... somewhat intimate, yes."

Booth shot out of his chair as if he'd been stung, outraged. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" he demanded angrily.

"I don't see how it's any of your business."

"You don't see how... really! Really!? Let me explain to you, _Bones_, how this information should have been part of my review of the case file. You don't see how this would possibly change our approach? You're in a wig, for Christ's sake—you're not invisible—the man is going to recognize you!"

Caught in his own fear and rage, Booth didn't notice how loudly his voice had started to carry through the office, or the many fascinated stares that popped up from paper-strewn desks like a sea of prairie dogs.

Bones was getting a little loud herself. "I considered the possibility, _Booth,_" she replied acidly. "And I came to the conclusion that it's unlikely he'll recognize me. He was sexually promiscuous, what Angela would call a 'player', so I sincerely doubt he'll remember me from five years ago, okay?"

"Not okay!" he roared incredulously. "You let me think that the two of you were just colleagues, and I _already _thought this setup was too dangerous. Now you tell me that you had some sort of... fling with this asshole? Are you _kidding me Bones?!_ You really think that _any _man who was _with _you could possibly just forget about it? This is beyond acceptable. You're jeopardizing the entire case, your own safety, and you withheld crucial information from me!"

Hacker jolted to a stop in front of Booth's office, so absorbed with with what he planned to say to the agent that he was taken aback by the crowd of subs lurking just outside the glass doors with rapt attention on their faces. Of all the ways he'd planned to start the conversation with Booth, he never expected to find himself staring down the man's finger pointed angrily and directly at his face.

"You," Booth growled at Hacker, "pull her off the case. This operation is canceled."

"W-what? Agent Booth, what..."

"Get her out of there _now,_" Booth hissed, his face hardened with anger.

"I don't understand," Hacker attempted.

"Did you know about this, Hacker?" Booth demanded. "Did you know about her prior _relationship_ with Quijano?"

Hacker felt himself pale, putting the pieces together quickly. "I... um, no... I definitely didn't know about that..."

"But surely you can understand now, Assistant Director, why our undercover operation is suddenly lacking in _undercover._" Booth advanced on Hacker's personal space slowly, deliberately intimidating.

Hacker nodded slowly, his mind whirling. Brennan was his only plan to bring down Number Four; he had no backup operation. He felt his entire career weighing on this decision. He didn't want to risk Temperance's safety, but... dammit, she really should have told him. Booth was right that this information changed everything. They would never have sent her in undercover if they'd known she'd been romantically involved with their target. This was going to make him look incompetent in front of the review board. Hacker was mad—at Brennan, at Booth, at the whole fucked-up mismanagement of this case from day one. There had to be a way to salvage this...

"Let's not be hasty, Agent Booth," he attempted to sound calm. "We have a lot of capital sunk in this operation and we need to figure out our next move..."

Booth got right up in his face, close enough that Hacker's chest bounced off the rock-like wall of muscle awkwardly. He attempted to avert his eyes from the agent's unwavering glare, conscious of the subs behind them. Hacker felt adrenalin spurting weakly through his veins; he never liked confrontation. He was a jovial guy. And to be honest, Booth scared the hell out of him.

Hacker forced himself to return the agent's stare, desperately trying to project an air of steady authority. "I just need a minute to think, Agent Booth," he placated. "If you could just calm down..."

Booth stepped back abruptly, tilting his chin up as if he'd reached a conclusion. "Fine. You just stay here with your head up your ass. Take your time and think it over. I'm going to get her."

_Fire him. Fire him!_ A tiny voice urged Hacker to recover his lost leadership. But outwardly, he only stood dejectedly as Agent Booth ripped the microphone from his lapel and grabbed his jacket.

"Bones--" he growled into the mic clenched in his white-knuckled fist, "I'm coming down there. Stay out of sight and don't talk to anybody." And with a last, blood-freezing glance at Hacker, he threw the mic down and strode from his office, parting the cluster of nosy subs like a bullet cutting through flesh.

Back at The Moonlight, Brennan stared wide-eyed into nowhere. She could only imagine the scene that had accompanied what she'd been able to hear. Booth sounded _really _angry this time. She knew she should have told him the truth about her history with Quijano. But she'd foolishly rationalized her concerns away, convinced herself it wouldn't matter and that she could still single-handedly bring down one of the Bureau's biggest targets. All those rationalizations, though.... well, it was possible that they covered up a more selfish motive. She just hadn't wanted to disappoint Booth, to shock him yet again with her legendarily awful taste in men. She couldn't handle the humiliation anymore.

Ironically, humiliation was what she felt most keenly now. This case was so high-profile, so expensive. Andrew would be disappointed too. Even Trish and Mark... _This _was why she shouldn't have romantic thoughts about her partner. It clouded her judgment, made her keep secrets. And now the whole operation was unraveling.

"Temperance?" A voice issued quietly through her earpiece. It was Hacker, sounding shaken and irritated.

"Andrew, I'm sorry..." she started.

"We'll talk about it later. I guess for now... you should get ready to leave. I think Booth's right..."

A drawn-out silence from her end disoriented Hacker, and he tapped the microphone cautiously. "Temperance, are you still there?"

"Andrew--" she whispered, her voice tense and tight, "a man just walked in... I think... I think it could be our guy."

"Um, okay... um, oh God. Just... stay where you are," Hacker stuttered, grabbing the monitors clumsily to find her view of the crowd. "We can do this," he told her, entirely unsure that they could.

**AN: Whew! I'm barely keeping up with these chapters. I wrote this one quickly, so I apologize for any typos or mistakes... I'm going to go watch the new episode now. (And then I'm going to finally catch up on my review replies!) Kisses and hugs to all... : )**


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Happy birthday, space77! : )**

Brennan sat up straighter against the banquette, straining her eyes towards the entrance. The man who had immediately caught her eye was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit and seemed the right height, relative weight, and age. He was accompanied by a second man, less well-dressed, who scanned the club with a trained eye. A slight bulk on the right side of his ribs, under his suit jacket, hinted that he was carrying a concealed weapon.

"There are two of them," she whispered. "Second one looks like a bodyguard. Can you see them on the feed?"

Hacker stared into the depths of the crowd milling across his monitor. "I see them, Temperance, but people keep walking in front of them... can you get any closer?"

Booth's recent instructions flitted through her mind: _Stay out of sight and don't talk to anybody._ She bit her lip anxiously, craning her neck to study the dark-haired man. Maybe if she got just a little bit nearer...

Peeling herself nimbly from the banquette, she cut a path slowly across the back of the club, doing her best to keep her necklace camera trained on the two clients. The well-dressed man was chatting with one of Miriam's women, while the bodyguard continued scanning the crowd. Pressing herself flat behind a support pillar, and doing her best impression of a blase lean, Brennan held the necklace pendant to the side as if she were casually toying with it.

"Can you see them now?" she asked quietly.

"No good. There's a couple blocking my view. Can you move around them?" Hacker asked.

Swallowing the swarm of butterflies attempting to escape her esophagus, Brennan pushed herself off from the pillar and moved through the crowd at an oblique angle, keeping her eyes steadfastly away from the two men while simultaneously attempting to twist her necklace in their direction. She sauntered arrogantly, recalling Trish's advice, and tried to keep her knees from buckling underneath her from the sudden rush of epinephrine.

"You're so close, Temperance. But this angle's no good. Just a few feet closer, around front. You're doing really great! Just a little more," Hacker coached, leaning into the monitors with pulse-tripping excitement. He could feel it. He and Temperance were going to take this guy down together, without Booth's help.

Smoothing her dress to her sides nervously, Brennan crossed in front of the two men, moving slowly and languidly. She was no more than ten feet from them, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled eerily.

"Andrew," she whispered tensely.

"Right where you are, that's perfect!" he replied.

She risked a quick glance over her shoulder and was shocked to see the crowd shift slightly around her, opening a sudden sightline directly between her and her target. _No no no! _A pair of warm brown eyes found hers and she felt herself still as the man stared directly at her, a slight grin on his lips.

She felt transported to the past. This man's face was oddly familiar, and yet not. Her heartbeat racing, she slid her gaze away and took a few steps in the opposite direction but it was too late. She felt his presence behind her and turned to find herself looking directly into the face of a man who could very well be a surgically altered Cristoba. A man who could very well be the mass-murdering crime boss Quijano.

"Shit shit _shit,_"Andrew's voice echoed in her ear.

"Good evening," the man greeted her, his deep voice gilded with a slight accent.

Brennan dipped her head slightly in response, watching him warily as her mind whirled. The eyes looked very similar, though his cheekbones were higher and his jaw heavier. Facial implants could very well have caused the thickening across his mandible, and a rhinoplasty could explain the relative thinness of his nasal bridge. His hair looked the same, though, and his confident smile seemed creepily legitimate.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked wolfishly, his gaze caressing the length of her body.

Brennan glanced at the man next to him. The bodyguard was staring her down intently, suspicion written clearly across his dark eyes. She hadn't counted on two-against-one. Brennan wanted to ask her partner for advice; she didn't know what to do. She wasn't certain that this man was Quijano, and yet he seemed such a plausible match that she couldn't just walk away.

"Temperance--" Hacker rushed, "I don't want to ask you to do this, but if you think this is our guy, let him buy you the drink. Get him talking, buy time. Just stay calm."

She tipped her chin delicately in consent and gestured towards the bar, the bodyguard's wary eyes burning holes into her.

As they crossed the bar, the man took her arm brashly, and remembering the role she was playing, she choked down a shudder of disgust and allowed the touch. The bodyguard trailed a few paces behind and she looked back at him nervously.

"Don't mind my friend. He's just here to make sure I don't get into too much trouble," the man spoke softly. Brushing a fingertip over her collarbone, he showed his teeth in a seductive smile. "You don't look like too much trouble to me."

"Keep him talking, Temperance! Ask him where he's from or something... just give me the signal when you're sure," Andrew's voice urged excitedly in her ear.

Brennan had never missed Booth so profoundly. She felt out of her depth and foolish to have undertaken such a folly alone. She slid onto the bar stool he gestured her towards and met his eye with as much bravery as she could muster, trusting her disguise and his shallowness to keep her undiscovered. She focused on his face, her trained eye flying over the details of his structure and coloring: measuring, assessing. She felt ninety percent sure that she was looking into the face of her ex-lover, but couldn't be certain. Something just felt off, though there was an undeniable resemblance.

The bodyguard positioned himself directly behind her, still studying her with his intense eyes, cocking his head to the side as if attempting to figure her out. He made her nervous, _very _nervous. So she returned to the man she was increasingly seeing as Quijano.

He handed her a mixed drink without asking what she wanted, and raised his own glass in a casual toast. "To making new friends," he whispered.

"You're doing so well, Temperance. Hang in there," Hacker whispered, distracting her. She suddenly wanted him to shut up, to stop pulling her focus. His well-meant encouragement was only making things harder.

Forcing a small smile, Brennan took a sip of her drink. "So where are you from?" she asked, purposefully modulating her voice a half octave higher than normal.

The man glanced at his bodyguard, and some unspoken communication seemed to flicker between them before he turned back to Brennan and smiled again. "Nowhere interesting. And I'd rather hear about you. Where are _you_ from?"

As he leaned in predatorily, Brennan was forced to shift backwards slightly, colliding with the imposing hulk of the bodyguard. The man who used to be Cristoba smiled again, as if it were all a funny joke, and placed one large hand on the bare skin of her thigh. A sudden waft of burnt carbon and pungent vanilla invaded her senses, hurling her mind to a summer long ago, inside a tent under the oppressive Guatemalan sun. _Vanilla cigarillos._

Lifting her shocked eyes to his face, her pupils dilating in disbelief, she spoke breathlessly. "Indiana," she said. "I'm from _Jasper, _Indiana."

**AN: I know that one was a bit short, but we're getting close to the end now. Next chapter: Booth's back, baby! Woohoo!**


	16. Chapter 16

Booth's eyes had just adjusted to the dim interior of the club when he spotted Mariam's architecturally rigid shoulders. Sliding towards her casually, he discreetly flashed her the badge on his hip.

Nodding, the madam cast him a speaking glance and tipped her head in the direction of the bar, her forehead puckered with fret lines. Following her gesture, Booth quickly ascertained the reason for her concern; Brennan was out of position, seated at the bar and flanked by two large men. _What the hell..._ he had expected to bring her home, not to interrupt a friendly chat with a bunch of johns. He had clearly instructed her not to talk to anyone-- why was she so allergic to listening to him?

Crossing the club quickly, Booth read her body language and knew instantaneously that something was wrong. She looked trapped, and the second man stood at attention behind her in the unmistakably alert stance of a hired gun. The oily guy on the barstool looked much more at-ease, smiling at Bones with... with his _hand on her damn leg._

Grinding his teeth brutally, Booth interrupted their cozy conversation by shouldering right between them and draping his arm over Bones in a gesture that fairly screamed _mine_.

"What's going on?" Booth asked protectively.

Her eyes flicked to his and he read an entire novel worth of subtext in her expression: panic, relief, and a warning he couldn't decipher. Not knowing what he was walking in on, and not knowing whether she was still in character, he tried to arrange his features blankly and turned to inspect her guests.

"Who are you?" the seated man demanded arrogantly.

Glancing at Bones with a clear _yeah_, _who am I?_ in his eyes, he let her lead.

"Uh, one of my regulars," she replied, her voice oddly high. Booth could practically feel the nervousness crackling off her and he tightened his arm to offer whatever comfort he could.

"Damn right," he agreed, giving the two johns his best cocky smile. Meanwhile, his mind whirled. Bones was keeping her cover, even though she knew the operation was over. What could have happened during the time it took him to drive to The Moonlight? And what had fucking Hacker put her up to?

"I was just telling them about where I grew up, in Jasper Indiana," she continued tightly.

It took Booth less than a fraction of a second to catch her safety word and read the situation. This asshole who'd put his hand on her leg was their guy. She had somehow IDed the bastard and was waiting for the plainclothes agents to move in. Her part was done now, and the Bureau would have caught her signal; all he needed was to help her keep it together until their backup arrived and he could take these perps down.

So he smiled casually and tightened the grip around her shoulders, forcing himself to stare only at her as if he couldn't care less about the others. "You know I love a midwestern girl," he teased, bending his head to nuzzle the skin beneath her ear with the familiar ease he imagined a regular would show.

Brennan had to stifle a gasp at the warm tingles that suddenly illuminated her body, shocked at the way such a relatively innocent touch had unerringly shot straight to the center of her body, melting her insides like molten lava. She'd recently found Hacker's voice distracting, but Booth's lips on her skin were distracting in an all-together different way. She felt the conflicting pulls of panic and arousal disorienting her.

"How nice for you," Quijano said bitterly. "But if you don't mind, we were in the middle of something." He offered a well-manicured hand to Brennan. "And I was just about to suggest that we continue our conversation somewhere more private." His aimed his contemptuous smile at Booth.

"I don't think so buddy. I'm already paid up and here for my own private conversation," Booth replied with his own arrogant smile fixed tightly in place. He hated Quijano, hated his entitled shit-eating grin, and his fingers twitched with the urge to go for his gun. He forced himself to follow protocol, and wait for reinforcements, even though he _knew _he could disarm both these tools himself.

Brennan watched their standoff anxiously, ignoring whatever it was that Andrew was uttering tersely into her ear.

Booth allowed the hand he'd draped over Brennan's shoulders to gently caress her soft skin. "Ready whenever you are, baby," he murmured, tipping his head towards the rooms at the back of the club, considering this his best excuse for getting her out of their presence without breaking her cover.

She looked up at him blankly, glazed over and barely able to parse his words. Booth knew she was panicking and sought to cover her lack of response. Turning her to face him, he placed his hands on her hips and leaned possessively into her, close enough that their foreheads were touching, trying to convey reassurance, and forcing himself to ignore Quijano as if he were any random guy staking a claim on his woman.

Brennan couldn't think—absolutely couldn't string a single, cohesive idea together in her head. She had lost track of where she was or what she was doing, or why she had been so tense just a moment ago, because now... Now she was floating and tingling and warm and confused and all she could really understand at the moment was that Booth was here with her, and _so _close.

She looked dazedly up at him, his face so near to hers, and he could see the 'B' shape forming on her lips as she took a breath to speak. Before she could break cover and say '_Booth',_ he shut her up with his mouth, fiercely locking his lips over hers and forcing his way between them aggressively, slanting his head to deepen the predatory kiss. His heart lurched at the fragile feel of her jaw underneath his, the sweet taste of her mouth, the tight grip of her small hands latched onto his biceps as if seeking balance. He savored each overwhelming sensation of her gorgeous lips beneath his to replay later, and forced himself to break the kiss and get her out of there.

Booth disregarded Quijano's darkened expression and took her hand in his. He had just helped a still-blank Bones off her stool and was planning to sequester her safely in one of the back rooms when he saw the plainclothes agents enter the club. Too soon. Positioning Brennan firmly behind him, he threw a last smile at Quijano and his bodyguard.

"Sorry guys, maybe next time," Booth said, smoothly unholstering his sidearm in one lightning-fast, practiced motion and uncocking the safety directly at Quijano's head.

The bodyguard moved equally fast, drawing a heavy Glock at Booth. Brennan ducked behind her partner as chaos exploded in the room around them, the screams of Mariam's girls piercing the dim thunder-roll of stampede as the crowd surged towards the exit. The crash of glasses hitting the floor popped around them like cymbal strikes.

The two plainclothes agents moved into formation remarkably fast, flanking Quijano and his bodyguard with their weapons drawn and ready.

"FBI. Lower your weapon and put your hands in the air!"

The bodyguard looked at Quijano, whose hands were held up already, before slowly dropping his sidearm to the floor. Brennan peeked over Booth's shoulder to find the bodyguard staring directly at her icily. Quijano's face was blank with disbelief.

One of the backup agents secured the bodyguard's gun and cuffed the man, patting him down for additional weapons while Booth took the opportunity to slam Quijano against the bar with gleefully unnecessary force, enjoying the crunch of the man's ribs succumbing to the unyielding granite top.

Brennan looked around at the miraculously empty club, at the few patrons and employees who had chosen to duck for cover rather than flee. She couldn't believe their trap had worked, couldn't believe such a slow and tedious operation had concluded with such sudden, astonishing speed. The backup agents were hauling Quijano and the bodyguard away, reading them their rights, when Booth broke her wide-eyed reverie.

"Bones?" he asked quietly, returning his weapon to its holster. "You okay?"

Shaken, she nodded. A cacophony of cheering and riotous applause issued dischordantly through her earpiece, bizarre against the sudden silence of The Moonlight. It sounded like the celebrating was already underway back at the Bureau. She pinched the tiny device between her fingertips and removed it from her ear, staring at it blankly.

His eyes were concerned as he watched her. "You're not having second thoughts about turning on Quijano, are you?" he asked nervously, afraid of her answer.

"No," she replied immediately, easily. She had never truly cared for him in the first place, and cared for him a lot less once she found out that his entire alias was a lie to cover a criminal history. She just felt... she didn't know what she felt. The club looked like the next-day remnants of a wild party, with chairs and tables overturned where the panicked mob had rushed for the doors. Mariam was going to be so furious... Brennan felt ludicrous, standing in the middle of the darkened space in her tiny dress and sexy heels and ridiculous wig. She raised a trembling hand to her brow and tried to breathe.

"Hey," he whispered, moving gently towards her.

Her fingers had found the acrylic sweep of her artificial eyelashes, and she yanked them off viciously, one by one. The sudden rip of adhesive-injured skin brought reflexive tears to her eyes. She flicked the lashes dismissively to the floor, inhaling shakily. Casting her gaze at Booth, she could only shake her head and shrug helplessly. She didn't understand the overwhelming suffocation of feelings. Relief, that the operation had succeeded? Regret, that it was already over so soon? Shock, at the memory of her partner's lips moving over hers?

"C'mere," he demanded quietly, pulling her against his broad chest. His hands roamed soothing circles over her back and she leaned against him, her muscles gratefully ceding to his support. He placed a soft kiss on the crown of her head.

"You did a good job, Bones. It's over."

**AN: … Or **_**is **_**it? Lol... Obviously we haven't gotten back to the first chapter scene, so not quite yet. Soon, though, so hang in there! You guys are blowing me away with your reviews! Look, here's me.... **

***poof***

**...and now there's me, waaaaaaaay over there. : )**


	17. Chapter 17

Champagne corks were popping in the bullpen when Booth and Brennan arrived at the Bureau. Their entrance ignited a deafening round of applause and whistles from the agents gathered there.

Booth grinned and stepped to the side, gesturing towards his partner chivalrously. Brennan felt more than a little shy, having had no opportunity to change out of her disguise. She knew the interrogation of Quijano would begin immediately, and she refused to miss the spectacle of her partner breaking him down even if it meant finally shedding her painful heels. Plus, she'd wanted to get out of The Moonlight as quickly as possible once she saw the tiny tornado of rage that was Mariam.

Andrew rushed over to fold her into a bear hug, trapping her arms awkwardly at her sides.

"I knew you wouldn't let me down," he effused, a face-splitting smile beaming at her.

"Ooookay," she replied unsteadily. It was becoming increasingly clear to her that they would need to talk soon. It wasn't that Andrew was a bad man, and he wasn't without his charms, but... his behavior during the case had revealed a man with much more self-interest than she liked. It wasn't the time or place to disappoint him, though, so she managed a weak smile as he planted a loud kiss on her cheek.

Booth watched from across the room, surrounded by the congratulations and exultations of his team. The sight of Hacker holding Bones left him feeling empty inside. The change in their relationship that Sweets had warned them of loomed large in his thoughts. There was no doubt in his mind that Hacker wasn't good enough for her, but he couldn't undermine another one of her relationships unless he was genuinely ready to confess the reason behind his meddling.

He politely refused a proffered champagne flute and clapped Charlie on the back. "Get Quijano into Room 3 for me and start in on the bodyguard, okay?"

With a dutiful nod, Charlie hurried off to the holding room.

"Dr. Brennan," Trish exclaimed, separating herself from the crowd. "I am just so _proud _of you!"

Brennan accepted the woman's embrace with genuine affection. "I really couldn't have done it without you," she replied. "_Really, _really."

Trish waved her hand in front of her rosy face, demurring. "Number four! What a get..."

"Dr. Brennan?" Mark appeared at Trish's elbow. "Congratulations."

"Thank you for all your help, Mark," she accepted graciously, shaking his hand.

And before she knew it, Trish was leading her around the room, introducing her to all the agents. She shook enough hands to feel like a politician, and if someone had presented a baby, she would've automatically kissed its cheek.

ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo-

Booth squinted across the table at Quijano, noting the sweat building on the man's brow. His first few questions had received only silence, and when Booth had pushed harder, Quijano had immediately requested a lawyer.

Booth cocked his head curiously, waiting as if he had all the time in the world. There was something about the man's demeanor that didn't feel right. He wasn't acting like a career criminal. He was acting like a scared kid. His posture was tense and upright, his eyes flitting around the interrogation room. Booth knew from Quijano's case file that the man had once endured months in a carcel; he had millions of dollars of ill-gotten money, a network of informants, and at least one crooked ambassador on his payroll. Surely a man like that wouldn't be so intimidated by an FBI interview...

Booth frowned as he leaned back in his chair, contemplating the man across the table with slowly building suspicion.

ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo-

When she glanced at the clock, she was surprised to note that a good amount of time had passed. Excusing herself politely, she hurried down the hall to the interrogation rooms. Passing Charlie on the way, she waved him down.

"Which one is Booth in?"

"Number 3," he replied. "He just started with Quijano. I processed the bodyguard, but he's just a local who was hired as personal security." Charlie shrugged. "I told him not to leave town in case we have further questions, but he had a license to carry so we don't have any reason to hold him."

Brennan nodded, continuing briskly to the interrogation room. At the last second, she paused before turning the doorknob. Frowning, she wondered if Booth was aware that Charlie had just released the bodyguard. It seemed hasty.

After a moment of indecision, she turned in the opposite direction and rushed towards the building's exit, willing the elevators to hurry. She couldn't quantify the sudden feeling of unease she felt—what Booth might have referred to as 'her gut'--but she wanted to see the bodyguard one more time with her own eyes.

Just as the elevator doors slid open on the ground floor with a soft 'ding', she spotted the bodyguard's wide shoulders disappearing through the revolving door. She crossed the lobby as quickly as she could to follow, her stilettos tapping out a frantic tattoo in time with her pulse.

ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo-

Booth was getting frustrated. Something wasn't adding up. The man across from him still refused to answer any questions, and even more worrisome, still looked petrified. But Bones had said she was almost certain, had said that this man looked like Quijano. Booth began to worry that they had jumped the gun. So he decided to attempt a little misdirection.

"So where exactly was it again that you first met my partner?"

The man's eyes darted warily up at him, with a look of confusion.

"My partner, you know, the woman you were propositioning. Dr. Brennan?"

The man swallowed, an unmistakable look of confusion still permeating his features. Booth's veins froze; this man didn't recognize the name... This man didn't know Dr. Brennan... This man _wasn't_ Quijano. _Shit. _

"Okay, listen," he finally spoke, surprising Booth. "I'll talk but you have to protect my family. And... and not tell my wife about where I was. I've never hurt anyone. I'm not one of his guys. I'm just the body-double, the lookalike," he pleaded wildly.

Booth leaned forward intently, his strong forearms corded with tension. "Then where's Quijano?"

The man blinked. "You have him. He poses as _my _bodyguard. I'm just bullet-bait. Man's got a lot of enemies."

Booth hit the door at a full sprint, tearing down the hallway and into the bullpen of revelers.

"Charlie!" he hollered. The younger agent's head popped up. "Where's the bodyguard?"

"I cut him loose—why?"

"Where's Bones?!" he shouted. The sudden, stunned silence of the room enveloped him and he focused on Hacker's buffoon-like face staring blankly back at him.

"I saw her getting out of the elevator in the lobby on my way up," one of his subs offered.

_Fuck!_ Booth tore off towards the exit, choosing the stairwell over the elevator and taking the risers three at a time.

ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo- ooOOoo-

Brennan pushed her way through the revolving door breathlessly and scanned the street before her. The evening air chilled her skin through the scant covering of her dress. She had just seen him exit; she couldn't have lost him so quickly. She scanned both directions of sidewalk quickly and picked one, her steps carrying her briskly down the block as she searched the deepening gloam.

She was passing an alleyway when an arm shot out, covering her mouth and pulling her roughly into the shadows. Struggling, she threw an elbow against her attacker and bit down, while simultaneously directing a powerful stab of her heel onto his instep. Her assault didn't seem to have much effect on her attacker.

"You shouldn't have followed me, Temperance. I was just going to walk away," a quiet, horribly familiar voice whispered into her ear. Once again, the scent of cigarillos invaded her nostrils, and she realized fully the enormity of her mistake. She'd identified the wrong man; it was the bodyguard she'd smelled before in the club. The _damn bodyguard. _

"Stop struggling. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk," he panted, his arms effectively quashing her range of motion. "My driver is waiting just a block away, and we're going to go for a quick ride." She heard the click of a safety uncocking and felt the jab of a handgun against her spine. "So let's just walk really casually in this direction..." he guided.

Her face heated in self-recrimination. She had pursued a suspect unarmed, without so much as her cell phone, into a dark alley at night. If she survived this, Booth was surely going to kill her.

**AN: Omfg... I just caught the number of Author Alerts and Favorites popping off from this story and I'm krazed. Wow... delightfully krazed! Thank you so much... : )**


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Looks like the Alert function is broken right now... sorry that nobody's been getting notices for the new chapters (thanks for letting me know, TT!)... I'm just going to keep writing because I'm in such a habit now I'm not sure what I'd do otherwise... lol. Life, what life? ; p **

**Also, I am behind on my review replies yet again. *Sorry!***

The back of Quijano's towncar was quiet, elegantly upholstered, and dimly lit as any fitting background for a criminal's slimy dealings would be. Brennan eyed the handgun he had placed on the seat next to him.

"Don't even think about it," he chuckled. "Water? Wine? Prosecco?" he gestured towards the minibar.

Eyes widened in disbelief, she shook her head slowly.

Slanting his head with something almost towards tenderness, he leaned towards her as the towncar lurched into motion. "It's so nice to see you, Temperance... you really didn't recognize me?"

She studied him gravely. "You've had massive facial reconstruction apparently. And I guess I never knew you very well in the first place, did I?"

"Don't be like that. I have only fond memories of our time together." He smiled at her.

She scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest angrily. "I can't believe I got the wrong guy."

Quijano shrugged. "He's a good lookalike. Actually, he looks more like the old me than... well, me." Pawing through his vest pocket, he retrieved a book of matches and struck one, the phosphorous tang hanging acridly in the air as he lit one of his little cigarillos.

Coughing, Brennan waved her hand against the encroaching cloud of smoke. "That's a disgusting and extremely unhealthy habit," she chastised.

He only laughed at her, taking a long drag. "I got the idea from Saddam Hussein, you know?" he continued conversationally. "Lookalikes. In case anyone gets the bright idea to try to take me down."

"And yet, an even brighter idea would have been to just stay home and avoid the brothel altogether," she pointed out logically.

He choked a bit in surprise, laughing around a bubble of smoke. "True. But a man has needs, Temperance. I'm only human." His eyes slid lazily down her body, telegraphing just how disgustingly human he was.

(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)

Booth took the turn on two squealing wheels, siren blazing, pushing the accelerator pedal ruthlessly towards the floorboard.

"Charlie," he barked into his cell, "I want you to get an APB out on the car that they arrived at the club in. Talk to the backup agents, and get boots on the ground at The Moonlight--somebody must have seen what they were driving."

"I'm on it," the agent replied quickly.

"And get the security feed from the front of the Hoover-- I want footage of him leaving, anything you can get me." Booth barreled through a red light, maneuvering deftly around a hornet's nest of honking cars.

"Got it, boss," Charlie said.

"Does she still have that necklace on? Check her feed. She took her earpiece out but she might still be transmitting from the necklace cam."

"Will do. Where are you going?" Charlie asked.

"This guy's got the Nicaraguan ambassador in his pocket and he needs to leave the country. I'm headed towards the embassy. You let me know the _minute _you have anything, understand?"

Without waiting for a response, Booth slammed his phone shut, tossing it angrily onto the seat beside him. He glanced at the speedometer and pushed the pedal lower. That fucker had _stolen his Bones _and Booth was going to make him pay.

(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)(bnb)

The scenery flashing past beyond the tinted windows of the towncar was nondescript and dark. Brennan hadn't been able to catch a street sign that she recognized, and could only guess that they were headed west.

Scowling, she bit her lip in frustration. She didn't want to talk to Quijano any more than she had to, but her curiosity was getting the best of her. "So when did you recognize _me_?" she had to ask.

"Almost immediately," he chuckled, his eyebrows jumping as if she had asked a stupid question.

_Why did Booth always have to be right? _she wondered crankily.

"I was just about to tell my guy that I wanted you for myself... don't worry, I would never have let him touch you," he said odiously, laying his fingers on the bare skin of her knee.

She slapped his hand away.

"Okay, okay," he grinned. "And to be honest, I thought at first that you might be doing research or something for one of your books. I'm a big fan you know..."

"I wouldn't have thought that your drug smuggling and murdering left you a lot of free time for reading," she sneered.

He sat back, regarding her seriously. "You and I both know that if I were still just Dr. Cristoba we'd be somewhere... more pleasant right now."

Brennan looked into the face of the man who she had known five years ago, attempting to reconcile her memories of him with his altered appearance, and with the truth of his criminal identity. She really did know how to pick them, she decided. Another epic romantic failure.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, he tipped his head curiously. "The agent who came in first. Big guy, really fast draw... are you two together?"

"What? No." She frowned at him irritably. "Why would you ask that?"

Quijano shrugged. "That kiss didn't look all that fake to me."

Brennan sputtered, the surreality of the situation finally overtaxing her patience. "I will not discuss this with you. In fact, I will not discuss _anything_ with you. So just let me out already!"

"Sorry baby," he replied. "Not quite yet. I didn't grab you just to enjoy a little catch-up time." The flirtatious warmth in his eyes was replaced by cold cunning, and she could see nothing anymore of the man she used to know. His fingers delicately traced the barrel of the gun by his side, in a subtle but clearly-calculated gesture of intimidation.

"I need you to tell me everything the FBI knows about me."

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"Go," Booth barked into his cell.

"We've got her feed," Charlie reported. "No audio, but she's staring straight at him. Looks like the back of a Lincoln. He's holding a gun on her."

Booth cursed inwardly. There was a part of him that had hoped he was wrong--that Bones had just stepped out for some fresh air. But this was, in so many ways, not his lucky day.

"Doesn't that thing have GPS or something?" he asked hopefully.

"No... Mark's working on the images, seeing if he can pull anything from the reflections on the partition. Nothing so far. We're still working on the security footage."

"Fine," Booth forced himself to say in a somewhat civil tone before hanging up. It wasn't Charlie's fault that he'd followed protocol and cut the guy loose.

No, it was _Bones'_ _fault: _for withholding information, for waltzing blithely into a dangerous situation, for ever wasting herself on Quijano, for giving Hacker the time of day, for pursuing a suspect without him, for being too fucking brave and too fucking beautiful.

Throttling the steering wheel in a deathgrip, he took a deep breath to cleanse the fear from his lungs. It really _was_ all her fault. But it didn't goddamn matter. He just wanted her safe, wanted her back, where he could make sure that she was never foolish enough to leave his side for even five minutes ever again.

Sweets had said it was time for them to talk; Booth couldn't agree more.

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Brennan tried to decide what Booth would do in this situation. Well, that was clear; he would refuse to share any information and simply allow himself to be tortured in the process. Stomach churning, she refocused her question as more of what Booth would have _her _do in this situation.

Play dumb, buy time. Give him a chance to find her.

"I'm not really privileged to that information. I only consult with the Bureau as needed. I don't have access to case files," she said calmly, looking Quijano in the eye.

He searched her gaze keenly, drawing out the silence for several moments. Brennan felt herself beginning to sweat under his interrogation.

The quiet was interrupted by the ring of a cellphone. Drawing it from his pocket, he answered it without a greeting, listening intently with callous eyes still trained on her face.

"Be there in ten," was his only communication, and he snapped the phone shut.

"This must be your lucky day, Temperance. My ride's ready and I've got to go. But maybe we can continue this conversation soon, hmm?"

With his sharp rap on the driver's glass partition, the towncar came to an abrupt halt, nearly throwing her into Quijano's lap. Always the opportunist, he grabbed her hand and turned it palm-side up, pressing a hot kiss against her flesh.

Shuddering, she pulled her hand back quickly, but he only grinned at her, his eyes crinkling as if she was a delightful joke.

"Until we meet again," he said smoothly, opening the door and shoving her unceremoniously out onto the cold sidewalk, the gravel biting into her hands and knees. Before she could regain her feet, the towncar was speeding away from the curb, the twin red spots of its taillights evaporating in the nighttime. She hadn't even had time to catch the license plate before it was gone.

Looking around in disgust, Brennan found herself in a rough-looking neighborhood, rowed with dilapidated apartment buildings and only a smattering of functional streetlights. There was no one in sight in any direction, no businesses open to seek shelter inside. Cursing her dress yet again for lacking a pocket big enough to hold a phone, she set off in an arbitrarily selected direction, wrapping her arms over themselves for warmth. She debated removing her heels but noted the glitter of shattered glass freckling the pavement.

Sighing deeply, she voiced her frustration to the evening wind. "Well _that _was anticlimactic..."

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"Boss, we've got a location. He pushed her out of the car--"

"He did _what_?"

"--she's on Beulah Street, in front of a Dollar General, walking east."

"That's just a few blocks from me." Booth knew he had two choices; he could lose valuable time by stopping to collect his partner or he could continue on after Quijano, who seemed to be en route to the embassy's helipad just as he'd expected. He bit his lip and damned his conscience.

"I've already got two cars in pursuit, boss. We'll catch him." Charlie interrupted. "Just go get your partner." At that, his junior agent hung up on _him._

Booth grinned, amused by the giant pair of brass balls that his sub had apparently grown overnight. _Good for him,_ he decided proudly.

Booth flicked off the siren, now that the emergency seemed to have passed, slowing to a more reasonable rate of speed. He even stopped at a red light, feeling charitable and much more relaxed as he waved a harried-looking mom in a minivan full of kids to turn in front of him. It only took a few minutes to cover the four blocks when he finally saw the figure of a tall woman, walking alone by the side of the road, all long legs and indignant stride.

Grinning, he slowed to a stop and lowered his window. "Nice weather tonight, eh Bones?"

Gasping, she whirled on the vehicle that had snuck up on her.

"Booth!" she cried in relief, rushing to the door to lean into his open window. "Quijano drove off that way. If we hurry..."

"Nah. We've got him covered." Booth reached a hand out to touch her cheek. "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

"Of course," she replied haughtily. "Though... a little cold."

He smiled. "Hop in. I don't know about you but I'm damn well ready for this day to be over."

Crossing to the passenger side of the vehicle, she climbed up and buckled in. "I want some dinner."

Booth laughed. "Good. Because while you eat I am going to give you the lecture to end all lectures."

"--but Booth, I--"

He held a hand up to stop her, no longer joking around. "I will lecture and you will _like it,_ Bones."

Turning to glance at him and deduce whether he was being facetious or not, Brennan noticed a police car approaching them slowly.

"Booth," she alerted him.

"Don't want to hear it, Bones. I'm serious this time."

"But--"

"Want to know the topic of my lecture?" he asked rhetorically. "Division of labor. Who should chase down criminals and who should study sciencey things in a lab."

"I'm trying to tell you that..." she gestured out the windshield just as the squad car's lights and siren turned on.

The blue and red pulses of light filled the car like technicolor ghosts. "Oh _what_ is _this?_" Booth asked wearily.

**AN: ...Aaaaaand now we're back to Chapter 1! That's basically the end, folks, but I'm going to tack one more chapter to the end to wrap everything up nice and tidy. Oh, and... wasn't there something about a Big Talk that someone was supposed to have with someone else? Hmm... ; )**


	19. Chapter 19

Booth's pacing threatened to wear a track in the bare cement floor of the holding cell, while Brennan watched from her vantage point on the narrow bench that formed the room's only furniture.

On one hand, she was finally able to take her torturous heels off, and for that she was grateful. On the other hand, the cell smelled like bleach and was nauseously lit with one spasming, green fluorescent bulb that threatened to sputter into death at any moment.

"Yeah, no, that's great. Good work, man," Booth nodded, holding onto his cell as if daring anyone to rip it from his hand. The little patrolman had graciously allowed him to keep it, citing _professional courtesy_. Booth had replied that _professional courtesy _was the only thing saving him from a 'monumental butt-whooping'.

Brennan shivered in the paltry heating of the detention center. Apparently the metro police were doing their best to save natural resources by freezing out their detainees.

Booth glanced at his partner with narrowed eyes, catching her brief shudder. He wriggled out of his suit jacket while juggling his cell phone. "--yeah, first thing tomorrow. Thanks, Charlie."

He shut his phone with a flourish, joining Bones on the bench and wrapping his coat over her shoulders. She protested only briefly before accepting his offer. The coat smelled like Booth's cologne and held the lingering heat of his body deliciously.

"We got him, Bones. Quijano's in custody."

She closed her eyes with relief, exhaling a shaky breath. She had been pondering on the possible necessity of recorking all those bottles of champagne, which was both literally and metaphorically unfeasible.

"And Hacker's coming down personally," he continued, gently bumping his shoulder against hers. "That must be due to you... an Assistant Director wouldn't usually come all the way down here to bail _me _out," he joked.

She didn't smile.

"Booth... I'm sorry. I feel the need to say that. This wasn't my best performance. I made some... questionable decisions and I..." her voice lowered until she was barely whispering.

"Hey, Bones," he interrupted. "Lecture aside, you got number four. By yourself. That's a _huge_ deal."

"Well," she corrected, "more accurately, _you _got him...and then you let him go, and then he got me, and then some other agents got him."

He shook his head, amazed as usual at her ability to get directly under his skin.

"I'll tell you one thing--I've never wanted so badly to kick somebody's ass. When I saw that guy with his hand on your leg?" He whistled quietly. "And when I found out Quijano had taken you... yeah. And to be totally honest, Bones? I wanted to kick your little friend Hacker's ass too, almost all week. And now I'm in jail, and I have kicked exactly _no one's _ass."

She grinned at him. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think Andrew will be able to consider himself 'my little friend' for long."

Booth looked up sharply. "Really."

Brennan shrugged, fingering the edge of her dress anxiously. "I don't think I need anyone in my life who's going to encourage me to make reckless, ill-advised choices." Leaning back against the hard wall, she rolled her eyes. "I seem to do that quite well on my own."

"You _really, _really do," he agreed amiably.

They sat in silence for several moments, listening to the clatter and bustle of the holding cells around them. Booth's eyes were drawn to the bare skin of her legs, just touching his, and he noticed the brush burns on both her knees where she'd caught herself after being thrown out of the car.

"Does this hurt?" he asked quietly, tracing a hesitant finger just around the edge of the abrasions.

Restraining the pleasurable tremor caused by the soft pressure of his warm skin, Brennan shook her head.

"Why did you kiss me?" she asked quietly.

"What?" He turned to face her, finding her crystalline eyes staring back at him with open curiosity. "You were about to say my name, Bones--I saw you..."

"No I wasn't. I was going to call you 'baby', which I thought was an appropriate moniker for the characters we were playing."

"You... seriously?"

"Yes."

"Huh... okay," he replied awkwardly.

Booth cleared his throat, tugging at his tie nervously. "I wanted to apologize for that anyway... that's not how I... I wanted you to know that that's not normally how I would... you know, _kiss._"

Coloring with embarrassment, she waited for him to continue.

"I mean... I was playing a role, trying to keep your cover, so I... well, normally I wouldn't be so..."

"So what?" she asked, slightly breathless.

"So... forceful," he confessed, ducking his head abashedly.

"I liked it," she responded, before even considering her words.

His head shot up, and she found herself suddenly staring into his warm eyes. Her gaze darted to his slightly parted lips in fascination, unable to will herself to look away.

Booth swallowed. He had never kissed a woman that he already loved. Usually the kissing part came first. The weight of the moment felt like it was smothering him, and he was as nervous as a teenager. But he couldn't stop himself from leaning closer... closer...

She brought her mouth against his softly, remembering the heat of his lips, the surprising sleekness contrasting with the harsh stubble of his burgeoning beard. His mouth opened against hers, inviting her to lean closer and explore.

Their hands found each other's and twined together, palms meeting tenderly. The kiss was gentle, and sweet, and rich with possibility. Brennan felt something blooming inside of her, and gripped his hand more tightly as if to hang on.

Booth raised his other hand, shaking slightly, to cup the back of her head, drawing her under him with greater pressure. He had never been so transported by a kiss in his life, _never._ He shifted his lips over hers, seeking. She felt delicate, and hot, the smooth slide of her tongue just touching his, and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to live without this again.

They were interrupted by an awkward cough, and parted breathlessly to find Hacker staring at them through the bars of their cell.

Brennan blushed, raising her hand to her mouth as if to hide the evidence.

"Soooo..." Andrew started awkwardly. "I'm going to have to assume that this isn't just another _keep your cover_ type of kiss..."

"Andrew, I'm so sorry," Brennan started, rising from the bench to meet him. "I wanted to talk to you first, but..."

Hacker nodded slowly, finding himself submerged in a moment that he had hoped would never occur, but fully expected nonetheless. Booth had stood too, arms crossed over his chest and looking as forbidding as always. Hacker barely spared him a glance, having had more than enough of Booth's intimidation for one day.

"I probably should have known," he stopped her. "But hey. I mean, whatever... I hope..." he shrugged, searching for words. "I hope you're both happy." He hoped he sounded more sincere than he felt.

"Thank you, Andrew," Brennan said quietly, reaching through the bars to grasp his hand in hers.

"Yeah, well..." he smiled at her sadly, feeling the triumph of his day tarnish ever so slightly.

He cleared his throat, needed to escape the sympathy in Temperance's eyes and the possessive warning in Booth's. "I've got everything cleared up. You're free to go, with the Captain's apologies... even though, now I'm thinking maybe I should keep you both locked in here."

"Fine with me," Booth shrugged arrogantly.

Hacker shot him a withering look. It seemed more than enough that he'd gotten the girl; he didn't need to _gloat _about it. He tossed Booth a set of car keys with more force than was necessary.

"I had an agent bring your ride around-- it's out front." He squeezed Temperance's hand one last time and turned to walk away. "You do know, however," he called over his shoulder, "that you're both going to have to talk to Sweets about this..."

Brennan turned to face her partner, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. "We _were _supposed to have some sort of talk," she reminded him. "Although, you could say that maybe... we just did..."

His smile was warm and teasing as he held his hand out to her. "Talking's overrated, Bones. Let's go home."

She wrapped her fingers gladly in his, holding his jacket shut in front of her. The situation seemed oddly amusing, and she felt the need to share.

"You know, Booth, our first kiss was under duress of Christmas blackmail, and our _second _kiss was in a whorehouse, and now our _third _kiss was..." she gestured inelegantly at their surroundings, "in a jail. We seem to have a sort of... Bonnie and Clyde thing going on."

Booth winced. "Very funny."

"I _am_ becoming quite amusing."

"So you say, Bones."

"I _do _say, that's why I just said it--"

"--Yeah, I got it."

"I'm not really sure that you do..."

"_Really, _Bones?"

As they left the station hand in hand, their bickering melted seamlessly into the sounds of the city at night.

_The End_

**AN: Oh noooooooooo, it's over!**** :' ( I'm sort of relieved, but mostly just sad. 19 chapters in 19 days! And I really, truly, wouldn't have done it without all the support. You guys are the very freakin' best. BEST!**

**And now I'm addicted to writing case fic. So I hope to see you all on the next one soon! : )**

**Please let me know what you thought/what I should work on for next time. XOXOXOX and thanks again!!!!**


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